Wayfarers
by NokuMarieDeux
Summary: Welcome to an impromptu blizzard party at Sherman's Ranch & Relay Station/Travelers Hostel/Field Hospital/Logging Camp and Home For Lost Boys. No one's going anywhere until the chinook arrives...
1. Chapter 1

**WAYFARERS**

_Chapter 1: _**PROLOGUE**

**"**_**A great, great deal has been said about the weather,  
but very little has ever been done." • **__Mark Twain_

**Good morning, faithful followers... **_Gracie (aka Nonie) Sherman back on duty here after a sojourn down in Denver attending a quarterly meeting of the National Society for the Preservation of Western Frontier Genealogical History. Our theme this quarter was _'Connections: Who Knew Whom'_… which might just as well have been titled _'Who Met Whom and Ended Up Marrying a Relative'_ as this is what occurred in an astonishing percentage of instances._

_Back in those days, suitable spouse material was mighty sparse out there on the high plains. If you were a responsible adult male looking to settle down and start a family, the selection process generally began with friends and neighbors—people you'd already known for some time whose families included available daughters, sisters or cousins. But if you were a traveling man with no neighbors to speak of, your friendships more often began with chance encounters along the way. Most times a casual contact never progressed beyond brief acquaintanceship or was forgotten entirely. But sometimes it flourished and became a lifelong association which inevitably resulted in one or more domestic liaisons. In due time your new friend became your father-, brother-, son- or cousin-in-law… or the two of you became mutual parents- or grandparents-in-law._

_The challenge to each member of our historical group—right down to chapter level—was to glean from his or her predecessors' scribblings all instances of how our ancestors met in the first place._

_The stark reality of the Great Blizzard of 1874 was that it threw together some very odd combinations of people seeking shelter. There is little documented evidence to support today's tale but too many fleeting references exist in one form or another in too many families within the Society for this story to be a complete fabrication. Where the debate arises is in exactly WHO found himself stranded at the Sherman homestead during the emergency. Some folks assert that their revered ancestors most certainly were present and this is how they met or reconnected. For a variety of reasons, others claim that their dear old great-great-granddaddies could not possibly have been there at that time or perhaps had never met at all. Therefore, with tongue firmly implanted in cheek, the author advises the reader to take the following story with a grain or two of salt (or a bushel or a peck as needed). Oh… and just to satisfy the naysayers, no guests' last names are divulged… y'all are gonna have to figure 'em out for yourselves._

_(__**Nonie's Note to Reader: **__ If you're expectin' violence, an explosive climax or a bucket a that hurt/comfort folderol… stop right now. It ain't that kinda story. Well… okay… maybe there's a smidgen but nothin' major so get over it.)_


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2:_** FOR WANT OF A SHOE**

**"**_**Bad weather always looks worse through a window."**__ • John Kieran_

_**SATURDAY, APRIL 4**__**th**__**… 4:30pm at the Sherman ranch and relay station…**_

Daisy Cooper was easing the lid back on the big cast iron kettle when the youngster standing on a stool at the sink behind her spoke up.

"Someone's comin', Aunt Daisy!" he announced brightly, peering through the window affording a view of the side yard, barn, corral and a portion of the stage road to the east.

The silver-haired woman turned a frown in his direction. "Just one rider, Mike? Not the wagon?" At seventy-eight, Daisy's hearing wasn't what it used to be, but surely she would've heard a rider approaching the house, although what she'd been listening for was the buckboard returning from town.

"No'm… just a stranger leadin' a horse." Hopping down from the stool, the boy peeped through the curtains in the kitchen door.

_Who on earth could this be?_ Daisy wondered. Slim had said he'd be back in time to meet the afternoon stage. Jess had ridden to town separately a few hours later, intimating he _might_ be home by dark but not actually promising to do so.

The coach was now overdue, which in itself wasn't especially worrying—there could be any number of reasons. What _did_ worry her was that Slim still hadn't returned. On the other hand, she supposed it was possible that Overland had telegraphed notice of a change in schedule. If Slim had been advised of a canceled run, he might have decided to take advantage of the unexpected time off. _He and Jess are probably just enjoying a few beers and a card game in their favorite saloon. Lord knows they deserve it, as hard as they both work._

Mike was attempting to open the pesky front kitchen door, which tended to swell in damp weather. As usual, it was again stuck fast. Galumphing around the corner into the parlor, he climbed up on the leather fainting couch for a gander out the front window. The view of the hitch rail in front of the porch was better there anyway.

"He's checkin' his foot now. The horse's foot, not his." Mike jumped off the couch and reached for the doorknob but was forestalled by Daisy, who'd hurried after him.

"Mike... no! I'll go out first. You stay here."

"Aw... Aunt Daisy..."

"No argument. Remember the rule... when someone you don't know comes calling and you're home alone..."

"But I ain't alone... you're here."

"_Isn't_, Mike... not _ain't_. And you do as I say or Slim'll tan your hide when he gets home!"

The boy ducked his head and giggled, knowing the threat of a switching was an empty one. He'd been swatted on the rear a couple of times for disobedience, but no one—not his two guardians or his nominal auntie—had ever actually switched him. Still, he stood back respectfully as Daisy stepped onto the front porch, cradling in her arms the shotgun her 'boys' insisted she keep loaded and handy against any unpleasant eventuality. She didn't close the door all the way behind her, which Mike took as permission to stand there with his face pressed to the crack.

A dozen feet away from her at the hitch rail, a figure visible only as human hindquarters encased in light-colored britches—presumably belonging to a male—stooped over next to the horse's forequarters, examining its near foot. He was using his left hand to brace himself against the animal's shoulder. With his back to the house and unaware of Daisy's presence, the man slowly straightened up and leaned against the saddle. His attention appeared to be focused on the towering bank of oily pewter clouds obscuring the mountaintops normally visible on the western horizon.

Though sunset was yet two hours off, daylight rapidly diminished under a thin scrim of advancing cloud cover. A brisk breeze sprang up, accompanied by a noticeable drop in temperature. Daisy didn't need visual signals to be advised of bad weather on the way—she'd been suffering bursitis in her hips and arthritic twinges in various joints since arising from her bed that morning. _Getting old isn't for sissies!_

##################

_**A vagabond at the door…**_

"May I help you?"

The man twisted around clumsily, freezing at the specter of a petite elderly woman leveling a shotgun directly toward his gut.

"Ma'am... uh... sorry... sorry. Didn't mean to skeer you." The voice was young and apologetic.

"Looks to me like it's the other way around," Daisy retorted drily. "Now, what can I do for you? I _do_ know how to use this thing."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sure you do. I... uh... my horse... ah... how far is it to Laramie, please?"

Belatedly he snatched off his hat, revealing a shock of pale brown hair and a worried adolescent face.

_Why, he's just a teenager… and a very young one at that_. "Twelve miles straight west. Just follow the stage road."

"Oh."

Something in his stance, the way he lowered his head with his shoulders slumped in dejection, alerted Daisy that the prospect of twelve more miles on the road was not welcome news. For one thing, the storm would overtake him before he got there. Just as it would Slim and Jess if they weren't already on their way back from town. _ Too soon to start fretting… deal with one problem at a time._ "You were saying? About your horse?"

"Ma'am, he threw a shoe a ways back. I'm wonderin', might you got one you can spare?"

Daisy smiled and lowered the shotgun—not by much—to the side. "This is a stage relay station. I imagine there might be a horseshoe or two to be found over there by the forge, under that lean-to next to the barn. Whatever tools you need should be in the storage box under the worktable or hanging on the wall."

"I can pay, ma'am."

"That won't be necessary. Just be sure to return the tools to wherever you found them."

"Thanks, ma'am... much obliged."

Before gathering the reins and leading the horse toward the lean-to in the gathering gloom, the young man inclined stiffly in her direction. Not just his head, but his torso. She stared at his retreating back._ Good Lord! Was that a _bow?_ The last time a gentleman actually bowed to me was at my coming out party over sixty years ago! What rabbit hole did _he_ spring from?_

She also noticed how slowly and deliberately the young man moved, with the halting gait of an old man… or someone injured and feeling it. Standing on the porch a few moments longer in the rising wind, Daisy finally turned to go back inside, shooing the wide-eyed Mike away from the door.

The doyenne of the establishment was glad she'd made her charge go out much earlier to feed his little collection of rescued and tamed wild critters and make sure the tarps covering their cages were securely tied down. She'd already locked up the poultry for the night and got the evening milking done early. When the 'boys' were home, one or the other usually took care of that loathsome chore—the evil-tempered Jersey was a prodigious producer but Daisy was afraid of her.

Checking the pot once more, Daisy returned to supper preparations. Tonight they were having Great Northern beans and ham hocks with what Jess playfully called her 'yankee' corn muffins, because her recipe included soured cream, minced onion, grated cheese, a little melted bacon grease and a spoonful of sugar. That never stopped him from shoveling in three or four of them dripping with butter.

##################

_**Compassion overrules good sense…**_

The window over the sink and adjacent workspace offered a panoramic, if uninspiring, view of the side yard that encompassed a corner of the attached corral, the entire length of the barn, the attached but unfinished bunkhouse, and the open-sided hay canopy to the back. The lean-to sheltering the forge was in her direct line of sight, where the visitor attempted to apply a replacement shoe. Daisy monitored his progress—or lack thereof—as she cracked eggs into a bowl and added cornmeal, baking powder and salt. Resuming his place on the stepstool beside her, Mike chopped an onion into the tiniest morsels possible while tears streamed down his face. When he thought she wasn't paying attention, he surreptitiously lifted a sleeved arm toward his nose.

"Don't you do it, I'm warning you. That's why the handkerchief was invented." Fishing a big white cotton hankie out of an apron pocket, she handed it over.

The only reason Mike had volunteered for the job was in order to put off—if only for a little while—his appointment with homestudy and textbooks. Generally, though, he didn't too much mind helping his adopted auntie as she was very patient about his observations and questions. Slim and Jess tried to be, but they weren't always available—and even when they were home they were usually busy. "Aunt Daisy?"

"Yes, Mike?"

"How come you didn't ask that man to stay for supper? He sounded polite and he seemed nice."

"Because we don't know him, dear. We're not supposed to let people we don't know into the house, remember?"

"But Aunt Daisy... we let in people we don't know every day when the stage comes."

"That's different. There're always other people around to watch out and make sure no bad people get off the stage to bother us."

"Oh."

Mike was silent for a whole two minutes. "The onions're done. What can I do next?"

"You could get the muffin tins out of the cabinet and wipe the insides of the cups with some lard on a piece of wax paper so the batter won't stick."

"Okay."

Two more minutes rolled by. "Aunt Daisy?"

"Yes, dear?"

"You reckon it's gonna snow?"

"It just might do that."_ I wish Jess and Slim would hurry up and get here. If there IS snow on the way, I won't be able to rest until they're home safe and warm._

Daisy didn't realize she had expressed her thoughts out loud until Mike spoke up.

"I'll bet _he_ wishes _he_ was somewhere safe and warm, too."

"He who, Mike?"

"Him... out there. I'll bet his horse wishes he was spending the night in our barn."

Mike was very deliberately not looking at Aunt Daisy, but in his peripheral vision he could see that she had stopped moving and was staring out the window again. He figured he knew what she was thinking, too. For an eleven-year-old he was pretty canny though folks tended to forget that on account of him being small for his age, which was a nuisance. "He sure looks lonesome out there. He's probably hungry. He probably wishes..."

Daisy threw her arms up in submission. "All right, all right! Shall I ask if he'd like to come in and have a bite to eat? Would that make you happy?"

"Oh yes, ma'am!"

"I'll be right back."

By the front door, Daisy toed off the doeskin moccasins that served as house slippers and wiggled into an old scuffed pair of barn boots that used to belong to Andrew, Slim's younger brother who was away at school. Next she donned a tattered but still serviceable flannel-lined sheepskin jacket, also an Andy hand-me-down, and wrapped her blue woolen shawl around her head and neck. Not that she would be spending that much time out in the cold, but at her age it was prudent to take precautions. Outside the wind was now fierce enough that she had to lean into it, praying she wouldn't be blown away into the next county.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3:_** HERALDS OF THE STORM**

**"**_**Climate is what we expect. Weather is what we get." • **__Mark Twain_

_**Earlier that morning…**_

Although it was Jess' turn to make the supply run, Slim had a personal reason for driving into town. Jess said he'd be along later after he'd finished chores and dealt with the ten o'clock stage.

"Or you could just stay home for a change," Slim suggested at the breakfast table. "Maybe read a book or something." _ I can think of a lot of 'or somethings' you could be doing… but now that you're a partner, I can't make that an order._

"Ain't been off the spread in two weeks," Jess countered quietly. _ No need addin' I need a break from routine… you know me well enough to know that._

"Weather's not looking too good," Slim remarked. _ As if the prospect of inclement weather would keep you away from a poker table. _"I'd better get going." He went to get his hat and coat, checking to make sure his gloves were in the pocket.

"See ya tonight if not before," Jess offered with a grin. " 'Spect I'll be home by dark."_ That's my intention, anyways._

_Famous last words,_ Slim thought.

Outside, the spring wagon awaited in the spectral light of a chill and overcast dawn, teammates Jake and Willie exhaling plumes of vapor. With Daisy's lengthy requisition list folded into a pocket and his itinerary firmly established in his head, Slim expected to conclude his errands in good time to meet the eastbound train, collect their houseguest and be home in time for the four o'clock stage.

As it happened, Slim's expectations proved overly optimistic.

##################

_**A town in turmoil…**_

The town seemed less busy than usual for Saturday market. Perhaps shoppers were holding off until afternoon, hoping the sun might come out and it would warm up some. Fewer vehicles in the way meant more convenient access to the establishments he needed to visit. Slim soon had everything on his own supply list loaded and ticked off. Before moving on to Daisy's—which involved stops at the mercantile, greengrocer, butcher and pharmacy—he swung by the railroad depot.

Union Pacific maintained its own telegraphy communications system. Grover, the stationmaster, confirmed that both morning runs were on schedule. Eastbound would be pulling onto a siding for an hour's layover. Westbound would arrive fifteen minutes later and lay over for thirty minutes before proceeding. Eastbound would then rejoin the main track. Not for the first time Slim marveled at the railroad's intricately timed orchestration of traffic control, where a slight miscalculation or miscommunication could result in the unthinkable: a head-on collision. There'd been idle speculation on the eventual construction of a second, parallel track… but that was far off in the future. Assured he had two hours to wrap up his shopping expedition, the rancher went on his way.

With the last of his purchases loaded on the wagon and time to spare, Slim decided to spend it somewhere warm. At Jackson's livery stable and forge he found the proprietor mending harness by a pot-bellied stove in the office at the back of the barn. Accepting a mug of the blacksmith's excellent coffee, Slim settled in to chew the rag with his old friend Avery. With the door closed to contain the heat and undisturbed by customers, neither man was aware of happenings outside.

Down to thirty minutes before the train's arrival, Slim stepped outside to find the streets swarming with agitated citizens—men and women alike elbowing their ways into shops or staggering out with arms laden with boxes and parcels. As an alternate city councilman, he was immediately concerned with whatever had them in such a tizzy in a matter of hours. The quickest way to find out was to find the sheriff. He didn't get as far as Mort Corey's office.

##################

_**The capriciousness of Mother Nature…**_

Passing the Western Union storefront on his way to the jailhouse, Slim spied through the plate glass window not only the sheriff but Mayor Elmo and the stationmasters of both the rail and stage depots huddled with Ernie, the chief telegrapher. No one looked happy. Upon entering, it was evident some sort of calamity was underway. The machine itself was madly clacking and Bert, the relief operator, was scribbling as fast as he could. Messages were strewn all over the desk and counter.

"What's going on, Mort?"

"Blizzard," the sheriff answered tersely. "Movin' this way… fast."

"How'd that come about? Everything was fine an hour ago."

"What rock you been hiding under since then?" Mort shook his head morosely. "It's _Wyoming_, son. Don't like the weather, just wait fifteen minutes."

"Any calculation on when it's likely to reach us?" Slim asked Ernie.

"Comparing the intake times on the messages, I'm guessing six, eight hours at the most."

"You _knew_ about this earlier?"

Ernie spread his hands. "Not exactly. Some snow advisories came in a few hours ago from the west, but nothing particularly alarming. We're thinking now the front's moving so fast it's taking down lines before the stations know what's hit 'em. We still have contacts south and east for the time being."

"Same for us," Grover, the railroad man, said. "Our western lines're still up, only because they're farther south, but who knows for how long? And we can't risk running the trains without reliable communication."

"Meaning what?" the sheriff inquired.

"Meaning when the eastbound gets here, she goes on a siding and stays there until further notice. She's due any minute now."

"What about the westbound?"

Grover was uneasily rubbing his hands together. "Already left Cheyenne. Too late to stop 'er. She'll have to go on the other siding. Gotta keep the main track clear for the snowplows."

The sheriff and the mayor stared at each other in consternation, then at the railroad man. "How many passengers and crew on both those trains?"

"No idea, boys. They don't provide us with a manifest. Could be fifty. Could be a hundred and fifty. Or more."

Slim knew exactly what all three were thinking… because he was thinking the same thing. _ All these stranded folks'll be needing food and shelter for at least one night and maybe more. And it's Saturday… which means the town's already teeming with ranch hands and other outlanders who'll be staying late or overnight._

"What about the stage?" he asked Kermit, Overland's station agent.

"The run from Rock Spring's been canceled. Also the northbound from Virginia Dale. The return run from Cheyenne's canceled for this afternoon."

"I'm calling an emergency council meeting," the mayor declared. "That includes you, Slim. Noon in the town hall. I've already had Mort send that new deputy—Emmett what's-his-name—to round up the reserve deputies."

"How'd the news get out so quickly?" Slim gestured toward the window, through which they could see a crowd pushing and shoving at the entrance to the general store across the street. "Weren't we all agreed that anything like this needs to go the sheriff's office first, then to the mayor… to avoid just this sort of panic?"

Mort answered, shooting a dark look at Bert. "You can thank this muttonhead for that. And that idiot assistant of Grover's, Oscar. They came hotfootin' over to me, all right—but blabbin' their fool heads off along the way. Now everybody and his dog knows about it and I've got a town in an almighty uproar."

"What about folks living out of town?" Slim pointed out, thinking of his compass point neighbors. "Who's gonna warn them?"

"Well, as we're a bit short of Paul Reveres, we can only trust in the Lord and hope their common sense has prepared them for weather emergencies," came the unctuous reply from Mayor Elmo, who was also pastor of the Foursquare Rock of Gibraltar Holiness Tabernacle of the Living Word.

_Which doesn't do a damned bit of good for farmers and ranchers on isolated spreads,_ Slim thought grimly as the tootle of the arriving train diverted their attention. He excused himself with a promise to appear at the meeting. He sure didn't want to be in Mort's boots. Frightened people could so easily turn into senseless mobs.

##################

_**Panic in the streets…**_

Maneuvering the team and wagon to the depot at the north end of town was complicated and delayed by pedestrians heedlessly sprinting across streets from one store to another. The passenger cars had mostly emptied by the time Slim fought his way close enough to spot his houseguest in the company of two other men he didn't know. Jumping down from the wagon and hopping up onto the platform, he strode forward to shake hands.

"Good to see ya, Tom! How was San Francisco?"

"Nice place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there. Too busy for my blood. Laramie's gonna be more my speed, I reckon… except maybe for the weather."

"You already heard, huh?"

"Yeah, when we stopped in Medicine Bow. By the way, meet my new friends Heath and Duke. Boys, this is Slim… the one I was telling you about. I'll be staying out at his place for a couple of days."

Slim dutifully shook hands with the two others, idly noting that both were tall, blue-eyed blonds like Tom and himself. _ No wonder folks are giving us funny looks… we could pass for littermates._

"My friends here'll be needing rooms," Tom was saying. "Got any recommendations?"

"Oh… uh… Mountain View's the nicest hotel although the others aren't too bad," Slim said, adding that they might want to hurry before all the rooms were taken. Seeing that most of the other passengers were already streaming away, ostensibly on the same quest, Tom's new friends hoisted their valises and hiked off.

Waiting for his baggage to be offloaded, Tom explained that Heath had boarded at Stockton, on his way to Kansas City, while Duke—bound for St. Joe—had got on at Sacramento. They'd whiled away the hours playing cards in the lounge car. The journey had been pleasant and uneventful until they'd arrived in Laramie and discovered they wouldn't be continuing on that day.

"So what's the situation here?" Tom queried.

"I _was_ planning on driving us straight back to the ranch, but now I've got to attend a council meeting. Might be an hour or two. You're welcome to sit in if you like. Be a good opportunity to meet some of the movers and shakers, such as they are, before you set up shop."

"Thanks. Believe I will. Wagon gonna be safe unattended? Doubt anyone'll want a crate of law books but you never know."

"No problem. We'll leave it at Jackson's livery. Avery's absolutely trustworthy and that's where you'll want to stable your horse, whenever you get one. Come to think of it, his wife runs an excellent boarding house, too. You can probably arrange to stay there until you find your own place. After your visit with us, of course," Slim grinned. Anyone else beside Tom, he would have hesitated before suggesting rooming with a colored family, but he knew the man to be exceptionally broadminded and the Jacksons were close personal friends.

"She a good cook?"

"The best." _ As good as Daisy, anyway… and that's something to brag about._


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4:_** CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME**

**"**_**Charity is not a bone you throw to a dog,  
but a bone you share with a dog." • **__Chinese proverb_

_**A moral dilemma…**_

The would-be farrier was getting nowhere with the skittish and uncooperative gelding. Though crosstied, it kept shifting nervously and jerking its forefoot away from the knees trying to grip it. Being considerably closer to its owner now, Daisy made a couple of other observations—chiefly, that he was even younger than she'd first thought… fourteen or fifteen at most. He was shivering under a light jacket unsuitable for the season, his hands displaying a slight tremor and his face an unhealthy pallor.

For the second time in thirty minutes, she startled the visitor. "How're you coming along?"

"Not too good, ma'am. He ain't likin' the wind an' won't hold still for me."

"At the rate you're going, it'll be pitch black before you get back on the road."

"Yes, ma'am. I do know that. I'm hurryin' best I can here."

_Daisy Cooper, you can't possibly let this youngster go out on an unfamiliar road like this... in the dark, and in the storm! He's unwell and he'll never make it! If he died on the road tonight you'd never forgive yourself! Blast and damn you, Slim Sherman, for holding me to promises you know I won't be able to keep._

"You could walk him into the barn and out of the wind," Daisy suggested.

"Reckon I could try that."

"Come. I'll open the door for you."

Daisy again had to lean into the wind as she rounded the corner and lifted the outside latch on the heavy door. The interior was dark but just inside a lantern hung within easy reach. Out of the draft, she had no trouble lighting it as the youngster led his horse inside.

"Consarnit! He's gone lame on me."

"It would appear so," Daisy agreed. The animal was definitely favoring that leg. _ Oh dear oh dear oh dear... obviously he can't go anywhere tonight. Now I'm really in a pickle!_

The boy seemed to be speaking more to himself than to her. "Was hopin' that wouldn't happen if I walked 'im 'stead a rode 'im."

"Just how far _did_ you walk him?" Cowboy boots definitely weren't made for walking and it didn't take any time at all for a man afoot to sprout a fine crop of blisters. Perhaps that accounted for his listing gait earlier?

He was speaking to her again. "Ma'am... d'ya think...? I mean, would it be all right if we bedded down in your barn tonight?"

Daisy sighed and hoisted the lantern. _ Slim... I'm very sorry but I'm going to have to overrule you even if it is your ranch._ "Go ahead and put that animal in the last stall to the left," she ordered briskly. "You're not going anywhere tonight."

"Thank you, ma'am. I can pay for his feed."

"Don't worry about that. There are spare buckets in the feed room at the back and a well pump next to the trough by the corral. The hay piled up next to the last stall is feed quality so you won't have to climb up to the loft."

Daisy caught the glimmer of relief and gratitude in the youth's face before he ducked his head in acknowledgment. She also saw pain and exhaustion, but now wasn't the time to ask about it.

"You'll find some liniment in that cabinet over there, and rags in the box below. When you've got him settled, get your gear and come on to the house. Be sure to extinguish the lantern and latch the door securely when you come out."

"Ma'am... that wouldn't be proper, you bein' all by yourself an' all. I can sleep out here just fine."

Daisy chortled. "Your regard for propriety is charmingly quaint, but let me assure you that at my age any concern regarding blemishes on my reputation is far exceeded by amusement that such a possibility could even be considered."

Even in the dim light she could see the boy was blushing to the roots of his sandy hair.

"Besides, Mister Sherman—he's the owner—should be home directly and then we'll all sit down to supper."

"Don't wanna trouble you none, ma'am. You don't mind, I'll just wait right here 'til he gets home an' says it's okay."

"Nonsense! Give me your word you'll come in as soon as you're done. Otherwise I'll just have to stay out here with you in this _very_ cold barn until you do… or I catch my death! I'm Missus Cooper, by the way. And you are…?"

"Name's Randy, Miz Cooper… and you have my word." _ I just been blackmailed by a little old lady._

##################

_**Daisy breaks a promise…**_

The knock at the door was so light Daisy almost missed it. As she ushered in the young man, she noted with approval the care he took wiping his boots on the mat outside the door. Somewhat deficient in book learning he might be, judging from his speech patterns, but someone had instilled in this youngster good manners and proper regard for the social niceties, not to mention respect for his elders. She raised an eyebrow at the bulky, canvas-wrapped item slung over his shoulder.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Just my old guitar, ma'am. Okay if I bring it inside?"

"Well, of course it is."

Mike came surging around the corner, practically banging into the visitor's knees.

"Hi! I'm Mike... who're you?"

Before Daisy could reprimand her charge, the visitor sank to one knee, putting himself at eye level with the boy and gravely offered a hand to shake.

"Good to meetcha, Mike. I answer to 'Randy'."

Mike was duly impressed. Whenever he was introduced to grown-ups, they'd mostly flick him an ingratiating smile with a bland and insincere greeting before turning their attention back to other adults. Ladies were the worst. They would pinch his cheek or rumple his hair and declare what a 'cute little boy' he was.

Randy got to his feet—not without effort, Daisy could see. What she couldn't see was any obvious injury. _ Typical male—either valiantly struggling to conceal a hurt or at death's door with the sniffles. Never mind. Eventually he'll either admit to it or give it away somehow._

"Hat and coat over there." She gestured to the long rack between the door and the window. "Oh... and gunbelt, too, if you don't mind."_ What's this world coming to when a boy this young feels compelled to carry a weapon? I should be used to it by now._

He hesitated a fraction of a second before undoing the tie-down and hanging his rig on a peg.

"You can leave the rest of your gear right here until I've made up a bed for you. No argument now! We've room enough. And I've decided we're not going to wait on the others for our supper. You and Mike go wash up. He'll show you where."

"Can he stay in my room, huh, Aunt Daisy? Can he, please?"

"I suppose..." Daisy stalled. Actually, she'd been thinking of the unused bunks occupying a shadowy corner against a back wall in Slim's and Jess' bedroom. No matter how pleasant and innocuous the visitor seemed, he was an unknown quantity, after all. Would it be wise to leave him unsupervised in close proximity with a small boy?

"Please, please, Aunt Daisy?" Mike implored.

"All right... but promise me you won't keep him up all night with questions. It would appear our guest isn't feeling too well."

"Just a little tired's all, Miz Cooper," the 'guest' put in far too quickly.

"C'mon... I'll show you where you can put your things," Mike chirped. "I got bunk beds. You can pick which one you want."

##################

_**A childhood lost to war…**_

Daisy was gratified to find her guest's good manners extended to the dining table. He'd cleaned up nicely and combed his hair. Even though she told him to go ahead and sit, he stood up to hold her chair when she was ready to sit herself. And whenever she arose, so did he.

"Heaven's sake, Randy... I'm just going for the coffee pot. You're not obliged to stand every time I do."

Randy praised her beans and ham hocks, was a little doubtful of the corn muffins—nothing like the plain, skillet-baked pones he was used to—but pronounced them 'real tasty' and put down a fair number of them. He practically went into raptures over her cobbler made from dried peaches and served with top cream. At last he declared he couldn't eat another mouthful.

"Home cookin's what I been missin' most," he admitted wistfully.

"How long _have _you been on the road?" Daisy inquired gently, folding her hands together beneath her chin and leaning forward.

A certain wariness shuttered the hazel eyes. "Left home a couple years ago. North Carolina, that is."

"I thought I recognized the accent. I was a nurse during the war, you see... for the Union army, in hospitals in Washington and Virginia. We took in casualties from both sides."

"Don't recall much about it, truth to tell. I was just a tadpole. My family mostly hid out in the mountains 'cept for the boys big enough to go out an' fight."

"Must have been very hard for the women and children... and your old people," Daisy said softly.

Randy had a far-away look on his face. "Yes, ma'am. Real hard."_ We was poor but we had pride, hope an' our little farmholds up in the hollers. Then the war come along an' we lost even that. Buried our dead in unmarked graves to keep the Yanks from desecratin' their restin' places. Liked to've starved in the winter. Our menfolk what survived was broke in spirit… took to drinkin' an' feudin'. Our womenfolk hung onto their faith an' their Bibles best they could… but that didn't put no food on the table nor clothes on their young 'uns. Prayers didn't put no cow in the shed nor hogs in the pen or chickens in the coop. Didn't rebuild homes an' barns what'd been burnt to the ground. No seed corn fell from the sky like manna from Heaven. Warn't nothin' left for us young folks to pick up an' go on with… so we started driftin' away. How to explain all that to this nice lady 'thout causin' offense?_

"Have you... do you ever go home to visit your folks?"

"My folks're gone an' ain't nobody left I care to see. The farmhold where I was born... it's a sad place now. Fulla haints. I ain't never goin' back."

Daisy reached across the table and laid her small warm hand over his. "Where are you going now? Do you even know?"

Randy shrugged. "No, ma'am. I surely don't. I'm just goin'."

Daisy cried in her heart. He wasn't the first whose childhood had been lost to war, nor the last.

##################

_**Once a nurse, always a nurse…**_

Daisy was starting a fresh pot of coffee when Mike dropped his fork on the floor. Sitting with his back to Daisy, Randy leaned over to pick it up. As he did, his brown-and-white calfhide vest—which she'd already noted had a hole in the back panel—rode up far enough in back to reveal a brown-edged stain on his shirt, with a flower of bright red in the middle.

Quietly putting down the pot, she walked over behind him.

"Randy, would you stand up for a moment, please?"

"Huh? Oh... ok... you need me to do somethin' for you, Miz Cooper?" He obediently scooted back his chair and unlimbered his lanky frame.

"I do indeed. I need you to take off that vest and let me have a look at your back."

He shook his head and backed up against the table. "It's just a scratch, ma'am... nothin' for you to be worryin' about."

"Scratches don't bleed like that," she said firmly.

For a moment she was afraid he was going to refuse, but he sighed in resignation and shrugged out of the vest.

"Now turn around, if you would."

Daisy tugged loose the faded cotton shirt from where it was tucked in the back and eased it up, taking care in case the fabric might be adhering to scabs. A hands-breadth above the waistband a two-inch incision had been closed with four sutures, three of which had torn loose. The wound was inflamed and on the verge of infection but, she judged, still at a controllable stage with immediate attention.

"What happened here?"

"Gunshot, ma'am."

"Looks like the bullet's already been removed."

"Yes, ma'am... four days ago. Doctor over in Cheyenne took care of it. I was s'posed to go back but..."

"Don't tell me... let me guess. You had to leave town in a hurry."

"Weren't my doin's, Miz Cooper, honest. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time an' got in the way a someone else's fight."

"That's what they all say," Daisy murmured.

"I expect you'll be wantin' me to leave now."

"Don't be absurd, young man. You're not going anywhere. I'll have to clean and restitch this but there's no urgency. Sit back down while I get my medical kit."

"I'm sure sorry to be such a botheration to you, ma'am."

"No bother. That's what I'm here for. Mike, I want you to get ready for bed."

"Awwwwww... Aunt Daisy... can't I help?"


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5:_** NO ROOM AT THE INN**

**"**_**Snow is like a beautiful woman, nice to look at  
but ultimately an inconvenience."**_ • _Unattributed_

_**Just one beer…**_

The sparsely attended council meeting dragged on, yielding no meaningful resolution to the impending crisis. About the only useful decision was the sheriff being empowered to hire additional deputies for the duration, to keep order and render assistance where needed.

"That's two hours of my life I won't get back," Slim griped as he and Tom exited the town hall. "They keep harping on the need for a city-wide emergency management plan but nothing ever gets done about it."

"Well, you can't really fault 'em. Times like these, every man's concerned with his own family's welfare," Tom opined. "Aren't you?"

"Of course I am. But mine's in pretty good shape to start with and I'd already laid in a wagonload of supplies before the news broke. It's the poor and disadvantaged who're gonna suffer… especially the dry farmers trying to scratch out a living miles away from town."

"I've seen a lot of that in my travels. So many immigrants who come west without a clue as to what they're getting into. Couple of times when I was working spring roundup we came across whole families frozen or starved to death out on the plains. It's heartrending, but you can't save 'em from their own folly."

"I know. I was hoping… hey… that's my partner's horse tied up in front of McGuire's joint. I need to let him know we're heading back to the ranch. Come on, I'll introduce you."

"You think maybe we've got time for _one_ beer?" Tom asked plaintively. "I'm kinda dry."

Slim squinted up at the sky. "Well… maybe just one. Then we gotta make tracks. Got a lotta things to do before the storm hits."

"I'll help any way I can, Slim."

##################

_**Luckless in Laramie…**_

They pushed through the batwing doors to find the saloon thronged with the usual midafternoon bar flies plus a considerable number of anxious out-of-towners—among them Tom's new friends, who waved them over to their table.

"You boys get fixed up okay?" Slim inquired politely.

Heath made a face. "Hell, no! Ain't a room to be had nowhere."

"That's why we're in here drinkin'," Duke added. "Already flipped a coin to see who sleeps on the table and who gets the floor."

A pleasingly plump redhead sashayed through the crowd, effortlessly evading groping hands. She glided to a halt at their table, propping her hands on her ample hips and giving Slim a flirtatious head-toss.

"Here I was thinkin' you was the finest-lookin' man in town, Slim honey, but looks to me there was more'n one pea in _that_ pod. Yer daddy musta got around a lot."

"Now Sadie… you know I have only one brother," Slim grinned back. "These boys are Tom, Duke and Heath—friends of mine—and we could use a pitcher and two more mugs."

"Comin' right up." Sadie undulated away toward the bar.

"So where's your partner?" Tom prompted.

Slim looked around. Barely visible through the thick fug of smoke, Jess and another man were playing poker at a corner table on the far side of the room.

"That's him over there," Slim indicated.

"They know there's a storm coming?" Tom questioned. "They're the only ones in here don't look too worried about it."

"Oh, I'm sure Jess does. Probably just waiting on me so we can ride home together."

The beer arrived and Tom insisted on paying for the round.

##################

_**Wait for the wagon…**_

"I'd offer to get the next one, but Tom and I need to head out," Slim said, consulting his pocket watch.

"Wish us luck," Duke said gloomily. "I overheard some of the workin' girls complainin' about havin' to double an' triple up so their own beds could be rented out."

"If I hadn't got tied up in that damned town council meeting I might've been of more assistance," Slim apologized.

"Weren't your fault," Duke countered, "Anytime you're dealin' with elected officials or lawyers you're bound to get screwed one way or another. No offense, Tom."

"None taken," Tom chortled. "I haven't been an attorney long enough yet to qualify as a shyster."

Heath snorted. "My brother Jarrod's the only trustworthy lawyer I know and even he's a sneaky bastard on occasion."

"Good thing you got your shoppin' done early, Slim." Duke was shaking his head dolefully. "You wouldn't believe some of the stuff we heard while we was walkin' around. Seems your charitable Christian citizens're rentin' out bedroll space on their parlor floors at cutthroat prices. The hotels an' boardin' houses're packin' extra cots into every room."

"Checked out a couple of livery stables," Heath added. "Lofts already spoke for. Heard tell even the sheriff's got folks throwin' money at him for a cot in a cell."

"Went inta a store to buy some makin's," Duke said, "Weren't so much as a can a beans or a blanket left on the shelves."

The enormity of the situation was beginning to sink in as the two men continued articulating the shortages and hysteria they'd encountered or heard about—due to an alleged blizzard that hadn't yet arrived. Slim had already arrived at a decision when he finally stood up.

"I'm going over to the livery to collect my rig. You boys finish your beers and I'll meet you out front in ten minutes."

"You mean… all _three_ of us?" Heath asked, startled. "We sure weren't expectin'…"

Slim smiled. "Around here we look out for our friends. Our place isn't all that grand but you'll have full bellies and a roof over your heads."

Before leaving Slim detoured over to where Jess was sitting… close enough to catch his partner's eye and, with a tip of his hat toward the exit, indicating it was time to go. Jess nodded in acknowledgment but signed him to go on ahead, he'd catch up. Slim opened his mouth to argue about it, then didn't. _Guess I can cut 'im some slack. Man's been wound tighter than a Waterbury watch lately…_

The other player looked up at Slim briefly. The glacial blue eyes in an impassive face made the hairs prickle at the nape of Slim's neck.

_I know that man. Just can't recall from where… or when…_

##################

_**Hastening homeward…**_

At the halfway point between town and ranch with the team at a steady trot, Slim remarked to his shivering passengers—casting nervous glances skyward—that they were still a good forty minutes away from home.

"Think we're gonna beat it?" Tom queried. "Those clouds are moving up awfully fast and the temperature's dropping."

"We might get a little damp around the edges but we'll be under cover before the worst of it hits," Slim responded cheerfully.

"Sure do appreciate you puttin' me up," Heath spoke up from the cargo bed, where he and Duke were perched on sacks and boxes.

"Goes for me, too," Duke added. "Mighty charitable of you, us bein' strangers an' all."

"You're both welcome. Like I said, any friends of Tom's are friends of mine," Slim retorted.

A strong gust of moisture-laden wind channeled along the stage road where it passed through a cut in the sloping terrain. All four men grabbed at their hats as the team laid back their ears and made a concerted effort to bolt. The wagon jerked forward erratically only a few feet before Slim got the horses under control. Willie and Jake were generally tractable animals, but they didn't need a telegram to inform them bad weather was closing in.

"Sorry about that," Slim apologized.

"Aren't you worried about your partner being stranded away from the ranch?" Tom queried.

"He'll be along soon enough." Slim strove to keep his annoyance contained. "Probably just wanted to finish out his hand." _Hope he is, anyway. Don't wanna believe he's so far into the poker zone he's forgetting priorities… and that Daisy and Mike are home alone._

Soon they entered another section of roadway protected by high banks and thickly forested on either side. Though the roaring wind was lashing the treetops overhead, they were able to converse without shouting for a few minutes.

Duke leaned forward. "I ducked out back while you went after the rig. Walked right by their table. Couldn't even begin to guess who was ahead."

"Jess is pretty savvy at cards," Slim said. "Every now and then, though, he comes up against someone who gives him a run for the money, in which case a game might last all night." _Except not this time, Jess. Family comes first. Don't make me have to eat my words._

"Thing is…" Duke began hesitantly, "you don't see too many Mexicans that good at poker. Way that other feller was dressed, I'da took him for one—'cept his eyes're blue. You know 'im?"

"Can't say that I do." But a dusty memory tickled Slim's subconscious. Eventually he would tack a name to that face.

"Well, _I_ know him," Heath said.

"Friend of yours?"

"Not hardly. But I know _what _he is… or what he useta be, anyway."

After a few moments of ominous silence, Heath spoke again. "Not to belittle your partner, Slim, but..."

"I know what you're thinking. I'd like to say any friend of Jess' is a friend of mine, too, but he kept some pretty rough company in his younger days. Every now and then one of 'em turns up like a bad penny."

"What'd you say this one's name was, Heath?" Tom asked.

"I didn't… but believe me, he's bad news."

Further conversation was precluded by their emergence from the shelter of the trees into the full force of the gale.


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6:_** UNDERDOGS AND OLD GRIEVANCES**

**"**_**Even the strongest blizzards start with a single snowflake." • **__Sara Raasch_

_**Trouble brews at McGuire's Saloon…**_

On his way to Cheyenne, the bad-news/maybe-Mexican had also arrived on the eastbound train. He'd been sleeping in the stock car, thanks to an understanding porter who'd sympathized with his inability to rest in a noisy, crowded passenger car. It hadn't been his intention to detrain in Laramie until the porter had come along to inform him of the weather-related track closure. Though disgruntled at the disruption of his travel plans, he decided to make the best of it.

Johnny had heard a while back that an old friend had settled down and taken up ranching near Laramie. Well, maybe 'old friend' was stretching it a bit—they'd met up some years back as hired guns in a range war down around Brownsville. Jess had been nineteen and not long released from military service. Known by a different name then, Johnny had been a gawky, gaunt, hollow-eyed colt of fifteen on the run from the Rurales. The rancher who'd lamented having no choice but to take on 'snot-nosed, wet-eared boys' had been happily surprised when the two unlikely sharpshooters had put a quick end to his rustler problem. Johnny and Jess had hung around together for several weeks afterward and then parted amicably. Jess had a mission to fulfill—a personal vendetta—that was leading him northward toward cooler climes. Johnny had wanted to stay where it was warm. Hadn't seen each other since.

By fortuitous circumstance, the very man Johnny planned to look up was right there in the gunsmith's shop. Jess had brought in a rifle to be rebored when Johnny stepped in to purchase ammunition. Johnny wasn't entirely sure the Texan would even remember him… or that he'd even recognize Jess. But it took only a minute or two before they fell into an easy camaraderie as if they'd parted company only days before instead of more than a decade. They lingered over a late breakfast in Abigail's Best Café, rehashing some of their more notable adolescent escapades, then had parted company after agreeing to meet later at McGuire's—Jess had some errands to run and Johnny went off to get a hotel room and install his horse at a livery stable.

By the time they'd reunited at the saloon, both had been advised of the severity of the impending storm and Johnny was chagrined at his failure to obtain quarters for himself and his horse.

"Don't worry yourself none," Jess announced cheerfully. "Plenty of room out at my place."

"You got yourself a ranch now?" Johnny lifted an eyebrow in disbelief. After all, he'd only ever known Jess as an equally fierce independent gunslick when they were youngsters riding together.

"Well, it ain't _all _mine... got two partners," Jess confessed. "Been settled in better'n three years now. What about you? Still livin' by that fast gun of yours?"

Jess marveled over Johnny's somewhat shamefaced admission that he, too, had succumbed to domestication. "Look here, it'll be a while 'fore that storm gets here. Might as well have us a beer 'fore we head out." He should have known better. He _did_ know better. But one beer led to another and another… and a friendly poker game.

It was all too easy to lose track of time and urgency—until Slim got his attention. But for that intrinsic rebellious streak that refused to allow Jess to lose face, he would've cashed in right then and there. He had every intention of getting on the road just as soon as he and Johnny played out their last hands, and he was already ruing the fact that he'd imbibed far more than was prudent. He wasn't knee-walkin', bucket-huggin' drunk though he expected he'd have a big head in the morning. _Sure 'nough picked a piss-poor night to indulge. Slim's gonna read me the riot act an' rightly so._

Another hour passed before they squared up their cards and drained the backwash from their mugs.

"Guess we better be goin'..." Jess burped, getting to his feet.

"How fardja say?" Johnny's speech was only slightly slurred. His extraordinary tolerance for alcohol led some people to believe his claim he'd been weaned on tequila.

" 'Bout twelve miles... two hours or so if that storm holds off."

##################

_**Championing an underdog…**_

The pair straggled toward the exit just as a pair of fighters fell in through the batwing doors. Hello! This was different... usually persons engaged in fisticuffs fell _out_ the doors onto the boardwalk and thence to the street. Jess and Johnny politely stepped aside and joined the onlookers, giving the combatants ample floor space to continue their disagreement. In this case, a hulking brute was walloping the stuffing out of a much smaller man—a thin, wiry little guy who'd been holding his own but was starting to lose ground. He was probably already anticipating the end when the dimwitted giant slammed a chair across his right wrist and he went down.

Brandishing an axe handle, Lester the bartender had been pushing through the ring of bystanders to stop the mayhem before their collective urge to participate overcame their wisdom in merely observing. He didn't make it in time... and the brawl was on.

Jess and Johnny looked at each other, each sensing the other's thoughts: they couldn't possibly stand by when there was an underdog to be championed! They gleefully waded into the scrum—as much to join in the merriment as to extract the loser.

After knocking together more than a few heads, they managed to latch onto their objective and drag him outside. They'd just propped him up on a boardwalk step when the sheriff and a deputy stalked up on their way to quell the disturbance.

Mort paused to give Jess the stinkeye. "I'd better not find out you started this."

"Who, me?"

Emmett picked up something from the ground—a shabby gray wool Confederate soldier's kepi with a black bill.

"That's mine..." The man on the steps held up his uninjured hand to receive his property. "Thanks."

The sheriff and the deputy proceeded inside and added their raised voices to the hubbub.

As Jess helped their rescuee to stand, he noticed the brass belt buckle at his waist, stamped 'CSA.' That in conjunction with the kepi immediately clarified the cause of the altercation, or as clear as it could be under the somewhat inebriated circumstances. A speedy departure was to be desired.

"Can you ride?"

"Think so."

"Which one's yours?"

"That sorrel over there."

Johnny spoke up. "Um... Jess... shouldn't we take 'im to a doctor or somethin'?"

"Ain't got time for that. Things're fixin' to get ugly 'round here an' I don't want no part of it. Mount up!"

##################

_**A judicious withdrawal…**_

Even as the lawmen were attempting to quell the chaos inside the saloon, the more numerous and clearly victorious pro-Northern faction boiled out into the street, seeking the individual their pal Grub George had identified as the Southern agitator. The shouting could be heard blocks away where the three riders pulled up, reasonably certain they'd made a clean getaway from the scene of a potential lynching.

Jess pulled off a glove, hissing as he inspected the bruised knuckles of his right hand. "You know, somehow that just ain't as much fun as it useta be." Violence always had a sobering effect on him.

"You said it!" Johnny agreed, massaging his own swelling right hand. "Now, you gonna 'splain what all that was about?" His alcohol-induced buzz was evaporating as well.

Jess made a disgusted noise. "It's about this damned town never bein' sure what side of the fence it wants to sit on. Accordin' to Slim it weren't back then an' still ain't."

"Sorry, I ain't followin'..."

"It's simple. Half of 'em took the Yanks' side in the war, an' the other half took our side. Sure, they kissed an' made up afterwards, but that's just on the outside—for show an' good citizenship. On the inside, they still hold the same old grudges... what's so funny?"

Johnny was grinning as he bowed with an exaggerated flourish. _"__Disculpe, señor. Sólo soy un peón. No lucho en la guerra civil."_

"Just cuz you didn't fight don't mean you don't know what I'm talkin' about! Grub George back there…"

"Who?"

"That big guy what was whalin' away on Johnny Reb here…"

"Who?"

"Johnny Re..." Jess turned to the third rider, who'd remained silent up until now. "What _is_ your name, anyway?"

"It's Johnny."

"_Que?"_

"Not you, Johnny... I'm tryin' to find out this rebel kid's name."

The 'rebel kid' spoke. "Just told you... it's Johnny. Thanks for pulling my irons out of the fire."

"No problem. We're gonna hafta do somethin' 'bout your name, though. My buddy here's Johnny..."

"My _pápi_ calls me John but..."

"Oh good… then we'll call _you_ John and _him_ Johnny."

"I was here first!" John complained. "Why can't_ I _be Johnny and _him _John? I like Johnny better. It's what I'm used to!"

"Does it matter?"

"Well... no..."

"How 'bout 'Juanito' then?"

"Only my _n__iñera_ calls me that!"

"Then it's settled. He's Johnny Reb an' you're Gunhawk John, Scourge of the Mexican Rurales!"

The Scourge protested. "Dammit, Jess... I told you—I don't do that no more. I'm a rancher now, same as you!" He edged his palomino in close to the sorrel and stuck out a hand. "Good to meetcha, Johnny. John here."

With an apologetic grimace, the confused ex-soldier tendered his left hand in return. "Same here, John."

"Oh... sorry. Wasn't thinking. That hurt much?"

"Like a sumbitch."

It suddenly occurred to Jess that he hadn't introduced himself. He extended _his_ left hand. "An' I'm Jess. Look... maybe we should go back an' see if we could round us up a doctor."

"No... no... that's okay. You've done enough… don't want to get you into any more trouble."

Jess grinned. "Trouble's my middle name. Ask anybody. How'd you come to fetch up in Laramie, anyway?"

"Rode up from Virginia Dale around noon and heard about the blizzard heading this way. My main problem's been finding a place to hole up and shelter for my horse. Tried everywhere with no luck. That's why I went to the saloon. Thought a drink or two might help me come up with an idea."

"I was in the same fix," John said, "… 'til _mi compadre_ _viejo_ here offered me a bed an' a stall."

"Doesn't help me any, though," Johnny shrugged.

Jess grinned. "No sweat! You're comin' with us. Can't leave you here for a necktie party or the tar-an'-feather gang."

"Uh... where are we going?"

"My place. Always room for one more."

"If you're sure it won't be an imposition…"

"Sure I'm sure."

John broke in, pointing out that the crowd noise was getting louder. The drunken hate-mongers were spreading out, still trying to flush their quarry. "We need to get movin'."

"Agreed! Follow me."

Jess wheeled his horse and took off down an alley, the other two close behind. Emerging from between the last two buildings, they clattered over the river bridge and headed east on the stage road. In ten minutes they were concealed from the town by clumps of cottonwood trees and folds in the landscape. Jess called a breather.

"Doubt anybody'll be followin' tonight so we'll keep to the stage road. It's a straight shot home."

"Ain't Laramie folks got better sense than to hang around saloons when they oughta be home makin' ready for bad weather?" John asked.

Jess laughed. "Those jokers are outta work cowpokes or outsiders come in on the trains, stuck here 'til it's over. They got nothin' to do _but_ drink an' fight. Sensible citizens got off the streets soon's they got whatever supplies they could grab."

John snickered. "All the so-called sensible citizens 'cept _you_. Your partner didn't look none too happy when you didn't follow him."

"Yeah… I know." _An' I'll be gettin' a earful about that… but not in front of anybody._ "It's gonna be a long, cold ride. Johnny Reb... you up to it?"

"I'll manage."

Jogging along in the gloom, the three riders carried on what conversation they could over the wind and their mounts' tendencies to cut and run. Jess and John, almost completely sober now, had taken up positions on either side of Johnny, seeing he was having trouble controlling his fractious horse with his one good hand. Jess resumed his explanation of what had goaded Grub George into attacking Johnny.

"Slim says that before the war George was a blacksmith—a likeable cuss an' respected. After a year in Andersonville prison camp, he come home with scrambled eggs for brains. Lost his business, his family—everything. Gone simple in the head an' the townfolk're real protective of 'im... make sure he's fed an' clothed an' has a place to sleep. Usually pretty harmless 'less he's reminded of... well... you know. I'm guessin' you walkin' up with that cap on your head set 'im off."

"That it did. Sure thought I was a goner."

"He won't remember your face, but you might wanna tone it down a mite. Wear somethin' else, you plannin' to be around a while."

"I make no apologies for who or what I am."

"Ain't sayin' you should. Look, I'm a butternut myself but I don't go around throwin' it in folks' faces. Ain't healthy."

John cut in. "I vote we change the subject an' pick up the pace a little. Thought I felt a snowflake just now."

"Mercy me! Wouldn't want you gettin' wet an' comin' down with the sniffles!" Jess hooted, kicking Traveller into a trot.


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7:_** ROADBLOCK**

**"**_**If it can be thought, it can be done…  
a problem can be overcome."**_** • **_E.A. Bucchianeri_

_**Earlier, on the stage road…**_

The wind had uprooted an enormous ponderosa pine that now blocked the roadway. In dismay, Slim pulled up the team and jumped down to reconnoiter. The other three men piled out to take stock of the situation as well.

Tom scratched his head. "Looks healthy enough to me. Why would it just fall over like that?"

"Pine trees have shallow roots," Heath answered. "When you got one just sittin' out here on its lonesome instead of in a grove, it's easy for a good gust to get at it and pull up the whole root ball… 'specially if it's been weakened by road gradin' too close to the trunk."

The terrain on both sides sloped upwards so that the trunk lay high enough for a man to stoop and walk under it... but there wasn't enough clearance for the wagon to pass underneath, nor could it go around. Too big to shift in its entirety, the trunk would have to be sectioned with a crosscut saw after the main branches were lopped off.

"What do we do now?" Tom queried.

"I've _got_ to get these supplies home," Slim gritted.

Tom cleared his throat. "How far away are we from your homeplace?"

"About two miles... why?"

"You got another wagon?"

"Yeah… a buckboard..."

"Can you walk the horses up the bank and around to the other side?"

"What do you have in mind?"

"I'm thinkin' you could ride one and lead the other one back to your place, hitch 'em up to the buckboard and come back. In the meantime we can offload the goods and push 'em under the tree to the other side so they'll be ready to reload."

Heath and Duke seconded that plan although Slim pointed out the buckboard was much smaller than their current transportation and the rear passengers would have to squash themselves in with the supplies. "Plus," he warned, "with no spring suspension it'll be a bumpy ride."

"We'll make do," Heath said.

Slim laughed. "I hate that you boys'll have to do all that work... and will probably get wet in the bargain."

The newly-minted lawyer laughed, too. "Long as I can expect hot coffee and a warm, dry bed at the end of the day, I'll be happy."

"I swear, Tom… I don't know how you can always be cheerful. It's downright disgusting. Doesn't anything get you down?"

"I have my moments. Might as well laugh, though… life is short and then you die."

The other two thought that was pretty funny.

"Let me get going," Slim said. "Right now the buckboard's rigged with shafts for a single horse. It'll take me some time to switch out for a tongue and doubletree but I'll be as quick as I can."

"We'll get crackin' here."

##################

_**An intruder on the premises…**_

At first glance, nothing seemed amiss as Slim rode into the yard. Smoke streamed away from the chimney and light glowed in the parlor and kitchen windows—that much was normal. Usually, though, Mike would be bounding out of the house to greet him, along with Daisy at a more sedate pace. Maybe they just hadn't heard him over the noise of the wind. He'd get the team hitched up first, and then poke his head in the door to let Daisy know what was going on and why he was delayed.

Dismounting, Slim allowed the horses a quick drink at the trough before leading them over to the buckboard, parked in its usual place next to the flatbed hay wagon between the corral and a cottonwood tree. Thinking there might soon be a need for lanterns, he headed for the barn. Immediately spotting outside the door fresh hoofprints and bootprints—too large for Daisy, too small for Mike—he followed them around the corner of the barn to the lean-to. A quick look around revealed tools not quite where he meticulously kept them. His hand went to his gun.

There wasn't any way to unlatch and open the side door to the barn without giving away his presence—anyone hiding inside would be instantly alerted by the draft created by opening the door, not to mention the squealing of hinges in need of oiling. Still, he had to check. If he moved quickly enough, however, he'd present less of a target.

Darting inside and closing the door behind him, Slim stood to the side, motionless, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and trusting his senses to apprise him of another human presence. All he could hear were the snuffles, grunts and rustling of undisturbed horses. Reasonably sure no one was hiding in the shadows close enough to jump him, he made his way to the front of the barn and put a match to the lantern by the door. Holding it high, he counted rumps.

The horses that were supposed to be there were there... and so was one that wasn't. Slim moved to investigate the unfamiliar animal, right away noticing its wrapped leg and a strange saddle on a sawhorse nearby. The sorrel gelding had been rubbed down and reeked of liniment. The saddle, though old and worn, was oiled and well-cared for, which said a lot for the owner of both. Nevertheless, Slim's mind immediately leaped to the conclusion that an uninvited entity was afoot somewhere on the premises.

After checking every corner of the barn—and the ladder to the loft, where a layer of hay dust on each rung and intact spider webs proved no one had been up there today—Slim deduced that the intruder had to be in the house. Extinguishing the lantern, he exited the barn via the side door and crossed the yard. Stealing onto the porch, he sidled up to the parlor window and ventured a peek inside.

Visible through a gap in the lace curtains, Daisy was darning socks in one of the big upholstered rockers near the fireplace, feet propped up on an ottoman. Slim tapped on the glass, face close so that she could see it was him. Looking up, Daisy broke out in a smile and gestured for Slim to come in, which he did... with gun drawn. Though she didn't appear to be darning under duress, one could never be too careful—or too suspicious. Looking around he made note of the strange gunbelt hanging where he and Jess customarily parked theirs… and an odd-shaped _something_ wrapped in canvas, leaning against the corner cabinet.

##################

_**Daisy stands her ground…**_

Daisy's smile faded. "What in the world...? Put that thing away!"

"You okay, Daisy?" Slim whispered.

"Of course I am, dear. What's the matter with you?"

"Where is he? I know he's here in the house somewhere."

"No need to whisper, Slim. He can't hear you… dead to the world."

Slim was mortified. "_Dead?_ Here? In the house?"

"Oh no... not dead as in deceased. Dead as in exhausted. I doubt he'll be waking up before breakfast."

"Daisy... the truth now... did he force his way in here?"

"Certainly not! I had to persuade him to come inside, as a matter of fact. He was most reluctant."

"You _invited_..._?_ Daisy! You agreed you wouldn't let in strangers. You _promised!_"

"I know, Slim..." The old woman failed at looking contrite. "But he's so young and alone... just a boy, really. I couldn't turn him out into this weather."

"Even a baby rattlesnake can kill, Daisy. You know that!"

"Need I remind you charity begins at home?" Daisy adopted a pious expression. "And remember what the Bible says about entertaining angels unaware."

Slim holstered his gun and shook his head. "What am I gonna do with you? You're way too trusting for your own good!"

"I know."

"Where is he? And where's Mike?"

Daisy put down her mending and arose from the rocker. "Come... but keep your voice down."

The oil lamp on the bedside table, turned low, illuminated two sleeping figures in Mike's room. On his side with his back to the wall and the quilt pulled up to his chin, the occupant of the lower bunk snored lightly.

"Pretty big for just a kid, Daisy. How old is he?"

"Shush! You'll wake Mike. I didn't ask and he didn't say but I judge he can't be more than fifteen at most. The poor boy was done in. He'll probably sleep until morning."

Slim had to admit that in repose the youth's face appeared non-threatening. He relaxed his guard a little. Mike was on his back on the upper bunk, covers kicked off as usual. Slim chuckled as he automatically pulled the quilt back up and tucked it in, whispering, "How'd you manage to get him to bed so early?" The child _always_ balked at being sent to bed before full dark.

"In the kitchen…" Daisy nudged Slim back into the hallway and pulled the door closed. "I told him I'd let him watch if he minded me and went straight on to bed when Randy did. Boys are such bloodthirsty little creatures, aren't they?"

"Let him watch _what_, Daisy?"

"Oh… well… I had to replace some stitches that had torn loose."

"_What _stitches?"

"Where he was shot, of course."

In exasperation, Slim gently took his housekeeper by the forearms. "Daisy, how about if you start from the beginning. Who _is _that kid? Where'd he come from?"

"His name's Randy. He was coming from Cheyenne and stopped to ask how far it was to town. His horse cast a shoe and went lame."

"Yes, I saw it in the barn. What's that got to do with stitches?"

"He was shot in the back four or five days ago. The wound had reopened and I had to treat it."

"Didn't it occur to you that he might've been shot for some reason… like in commission of a crime?"

"He claims he got caught in a crossfire."

"Likely story!" Slim snorted. "And you believed him?"

"Yes. In any case it doesn't matter. He'll need to recuperate for a couple of days. I'd prefer a week, actually."

"Daisy, we're not running a comfort station for juvenile desperadoes here, but you might get your wish anyway. You know there's a storm coming, don't you?"

"Yes, dear... I can feel it in my joints. But how did you know?"

"News came in over the wire from Montana and Idaho, right before the lines went down. They're saying it's a bad one. We need to hunker down and dig in."

"If you managed to get the supplies on my list we should do all right for quite a while."

Jolted back to his other immediate problem, Slim gave Daisy a heads-up on the road complication. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Do be careful, dear. It's almost dark. I'll have supper ready for you and your friend when you get back."

"Thanks, Daisy."

Only after he was back on the road did it occur to Slim that he'd failed to mention the two additional and unexpected guests.


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8: _** DANCING IN THE DARK**

**"**_**Mother Nature is the great equalizer.  
You can't get away from it."**__ • Christopher Heyerdahl_

_**An unexpected encounter…**_

Heath and Duke had stepped into the underbrush to attend calls of nature. Tom huddled in the shelter of a makeshift windbreak the three of them had constructed by creatively stacking crates and sacks unloaded from the wagon. He wished Slim would hurry up and get back with that replacement wagon before it got any colder. He was also beginning to question his choice of location for setting up his very first law practice—a decision heavily influenced by his friend Slim, Laramie town councilman and Albany County Commissioner of Roads. The two had been introduced at a fundraising event in the territorial capital of Cheyenne by Governor John Allen Campbell, an old acquaintance of Slim's dating back to their wartime service.

Tom had spent the prior nine years crisscrossing the country, wanting to see as much of this wide, wonderful nation as he could before settling down. He categorized himself as a tourist rather than a drifter, following short-term itineraries and forwarding addresses at which to pick up his legal studies coursework from the mail order university in Chicago. He cheerfully referred to himself as the proverbial jack of all trades, master of none, in that he was always willing to try his hand at whatever work came to hand in his travels.

Quite coincidental with Tom's sojourn in Wyoming, he'd finally been awarded his official diploma to practice law. He was thirty-one years old and it was time to pick a place to hang his shingle. His new friend had talked up the charms and benefits of Laramie and so here he was... freezing his nuts on a deserted road in the middle of nowhere—and with a blizzard on its way!

Over the whistling of the wind, Tom gradually became aware that he was no longer alone on the road. Someone else was cussing his way through the branches on the underside of the fallen pine. An oddly humpbacked figure emerged and stopped abruptly at the pile of goods in the road.

"What the...?" a young voice exclaimed. The presumed boy started to circle the pile and passed close enough that Tom could reach out and grab the nearest handy protrusion, which turned out to be a rucksack on the kid's back.

The boy squawked and squirmed in Tom's grasp.

"Easy! Easy now... calm down... I'm not gonna hurt you."

Suddenly the boy wrenched free of the straps holding the ruck to his back and twisted around to lunge at Tom with what appeared to be a knife. Trapped in his own windbreak, Tom could neither sidestep nor swing the rucksack—all he could do was hold it up and hope it would serve to deflect the thrust of the blade... which it _almost_ did. Defending himself from a second advance, Tom threw the ruck at the kid, catching him off balance. The boy lost his footing and went down, striking his head on one of the wooden boxes, and lay still.

##################

_**The runaway bound boy…**_

Facing into the wind and not at all happy about reversing direction, Jake and Willie fought Slim every step of the way back to where he'd left his passengers. He kept an iron grip on the lines, knowing that if the horses got the bits in their teeth they'd bolt and probably run headlong straight into that tree and break their fool necks. Just when he thought his arms were about to part company with his shoulders, he spotted a light in the distance.

There was just enough width to the road to turn the buckboard around and point the team back toward the ranch. Tom held the horses while Slim hobbled them, roped them to nearby trees _and_ set the brake—he wasn't taking any chances. Duke and Heath immediately started loading items onto the replacement vehicle.

"Got back here soon as I could," Slim apologized. "Had a little problem at home. Hope it hasn't been too... what happened to your leg, Tom?" He suddenly realized the other man was limping, with a bandanna fastened around his left leg above the knee.

"We had a little problem here, too." Tom gestured toward the side of the road where they'd managed to get a small fire going in a circle of rocks. A blanketed lump lay close by.

They both walked over and Slim knelt down, moving aside the blanket to reveal a thin sullen face with angry hazel eyes. A bloodstained bandanna circled the boy's head and his hands and feet were tied.

"Dammit, Johnny... what are you doing out here?"

"What does it look like?" the boy hissed. "Untie me, willya?"

"What did you do to my friend?"

"He attacked me. I was scared."

"You? Scared? That's a good one! Tom's not even wearing a gun."

"You know this scallywag?" Tom asked.

"Yeah. Chronic runaway."

"You gonna turn me loose or what?"

Slim frowned. "Last I heard you were fostered with the Carswells. I thought they were good people."

"Didn't work out. They sent me back but the orphanage don't keep older kids if you're not adopted. You get sent to the county workhouse and bound out."

"Yeah, I've heard that."

"Walter Prentiss took me and three other boys. He keeps us locked in a shed at night and beats us like rented mules. I'm not going back there."

Slim frowned. "He's got a bad reputation, all right. I'm sorry, Johnny. If I had any say in the matter, that man'd never be allowed to get away with this. How'd you escape?"

"Busted out a window. The others were too afraid to leave. Look... I'm sorry I hurt your friend. I really was scared. If you just let me go I'll be on my way."

"You can't stay without shelter tonight. There's a storm coming."

"Yeah... I know. But it was a good time to make a break for it, while Old Man Prentiss was in town getting liquored up. I'll be long gone before he even knows I'm missing. I know where there's a cave I can hide in."

Slim shook his head. "No... you're coming home with us and that's that. I'll untie you when we're ready to go."

Tom had gone back to helping the others load. Slim stood up and went to join them.

"Maybe you'd better take it easy on that leg."

"It's not that bad."

"Tom... you didn't _hit_ that kid, did you?"

"I was trying to keep him from sticking me a second time. I pushed him away and he fell and hit his head. I'm really sorry about that, Slim. You know I wouldn't deliberately hurt a child."

"Sure. I know that. Kid's had a rough life and he's only thirteen or fourteen, thereabouts."

"Sure talks older!"

"All we know about him is what he claims he remembers… and what the wagon train people knew about his ma when they dropped him off on their way through four years ago. She was a widow, hirewoman to a family going west. She didn't have any goods of her own when she died... just the boy. He's been bounced back and forth between the orphanage and foster homes ever since. Happens to a lot of those kids. They grow up cynical and can't seem to form normal relationships. I'd no idea he'd been sent to the workhouse. I'd run away, too."

"There ought to be a law against people raiding orphanages and workhouses for cheap labor," Tom said. "Someday I hope to be in a position to do something about outrages like that."

"Thinking of going into politics?" Slim grinned.

"Maybe. Don't know. Right now I'm just going to concentrate on getting my feet wet in the lawyering business."

The last 'item' to be loaded was their reluctant captive, who made only a feeble attempt to resist before giving up and being boosted into the bench seat next to Slim. Somehow they managed to cram all the supplies into the small cargo space. With Tom, Duke and Heath precariously teetering on stacks of crates and sacks of feed, Slim clucked to the horses and they surged forward, just as eager as he was to get home.

##################

_**In the meantime, back at the ranch…**_

Daisy's feet and back were aching and her head reeled with weariness. The ormolu clock on the mantelpiece chimed seven o'clock. Even though it wasn't visible, sunset would officially be occurring in thirty minutes. With feminine intuition and internal biological weather alerts in high gear, she'd begun preparations shortly after her menfolks had left that morning.

The 'cool room' in the root cellar was well stocked with eggs, milk, butter, cheese and preserved meats. Earlier in the day she and Mike had made several trips to the icehouse to fetch a variety of frozen meats wrapped in butcher paper, and to the smokehouse for hams, sausages and jerked beef. Fortunately, she'd got a little ahead on her baking and the pie safe was stocked with extra loaves of bread. She and Mike had recently gone through the apples and root vegetables and discarded any with even a hint of decay before they contaminated their neighbors. It had been a good growing season for both cultivated and wild fruits and vegetables. The shelves were laden with pickles and preserves—not only what she herself had put up but the products of neighboring farm women with whom she traded excess produce.

In her head, Daisy took inventory of quilts and blankets stored in cedar chests in the bedrooms, mothproofed with sachets of lavender and mint and other aromatics. Firewood was stacked head-high from the edge of the stone fireplace in the parlor all the way to the corner of the room. Bed-warmer bricks were aligned on the hearth. Extra barrels of water were stashed in the kitchen and washroom in the unlikely event the well pump froze up. She couldn't think of a single other thing she could do to prepare for one of Mother Nature's meteorological sieges.

As tired as she was, Daisy couldn't possibly rest until both her boys were home safe. At least she _hoped_ Slim and Jess would be back soon. She stoked up the stove to reheat the beans and biscuits, then put the coffeepot on to boil.


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter 9: _** AN ADVENT OF VIKINGS**

**"**_**It's winter in Wyoming and the gentle breezes blow…  
seventy miles an hour at twenty-five below"**__ • Unattributed_

_**Meeting Slim's guests…**_

As Daisy was about to sit down and put up her feet, a blast of cold air rushed in as the door opened to admit Slim supporting a ragged, skinny youth. When she saw the makeshift bandage on his head, her mouth opened in dismay.

"Not hurt bad, Daisy... at least, I don't think so, but I'd like you to have a look at him. Where do you want him?"

"Your bedroom, I suppose... for the time being. Get him out of those wet clothes while I get my medical kit and a hot drink—he needs warming from the inside. There are some old nightshirts of Andy's in the bottom drawer of the bureau."

Ushering the kid into the bedroom he shared with Jess, Slim had him installed in his own bed near the door by the time Daisy returned with a hot toddy and medical supplies.

"Just a little bump, Slim... and a very small cut that's already stopped bleeding on its own," Daisy advised upon initial investigation. "It'll take a few minutes to clean up and he'll be fine. Who is he and where did he come from?"

"This is Johnny from the county workhouse—orphans' home before that. Runaway."

"Where's your friend Tom?"

"Outside with… uh… two other guests I sorta forgot to mention earlier. We're going to unload the buckboard onto the porch first, put up the horses, and then start bringing stuff inside. Oh, and don't put away your medical chest just yet. There's a knife wound that needs looking after, too."

"Oh, Slim... are you hurt? Where?" Daisy was confused, not seeing any visible damage.

"Not me... Tom. Johnny stabbed him. I'll explain later."

Daisy rolled her eyes with a deep sigh. Injuries always seemed to occur in clusters around here. Who'd be next?

"Go on and finish getting everything indoors," Daisy instructed, shooing him out. "I'll stay with the boy for a few more minutes… just in case. I need to make up another bed anyway."

##################

_**Tall, blond… and confusing…**_

Earlier, Daisy had cleared off the bottom bunk at the back of the room and made up the bed for Slim's guest. Slim and Jess were both bad about carelessly tossing discarded or temporarily unused items there rather than putting them away where they belonged. It drove her to distraction but she'd been unable to break them of the habit. And because she'd been in a hurry, she'd placed all those items on the _top_ bunk, which now needed to be cleared and made up for another sleeper. She would deal with the two additional guests later. That done, she checked the boy one more time—he was drowsy and seemed content to stay where he was for the time being. He declined her offer of food and thanked her civilly. Feisty though he might be in other respects, someone had taken time to teach him manners.

Returning to the now chilly parlor, Daisy closed the bedroom door behind her just as Slim was exiting the front door. An individual with his back to her was shuttling firewood from the top of the pile to the fireplace. He turned around when Daisy went 'ahem' to gain his attention. She was struck by his initial similarity to Slim—tall, blond, wide-shouldered, well-built… with a wide engaging smile and twinkling blue eyes.

"You must be Tom," Daisy trilled, extending her hand. "Welcome. Slim's said such nice things about you."

The man took her hand with a rueful grin. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma'am… but… uh… I'm not Tom. My name's Duke."

Daisy didn't miss a beat. "What an interesting nickname. You'll have to tell me about it."

"Uh… ma'am… it's not…"

At that moment the door opened and another man stepped in, balancing a load of boxes that obscured most of his face. "Where do these go?"

"Right here is fine." Daisy pointed to the fainting couch, rearranging her welcome face as he put down the last box and turned around, removing his hat.

"Well… I guess _you_ must be Tom! Slim's spoken very highly of you."

The second man looked puzzled. "No ma'am. My daddy's name was Thomas but mine's Heath."

"Oh. Oh my. My apologies. What an unusual name…" Daisy stuttered, nonplussed. This specimen was a practically a duplicate of the other except slightly shorter. "If you'll excuse me, I must see to the coffee!" She darted around him and into the kitchen, willing her composure to return.

The front door opened and closed many more times until the last of the supplies were ferried indoors. Slim came around the corner, looking at Daisy questioningly. "Daisy, won't you come out and be properly introduced?"

In the parlor Daisy was confronted by yet _another_ blond man—this one shorter than Duke and Slim but taller than Heath. Lined up in a row, they looked like stairsteps and she couldn't help but make lightning comparisons. They all had big smiles, each with a gleaming array of pearly-white perfectly aligned teeth—surely more than the standard issue of thirty-two with not a gap to be seen. Together they formed a quartet of Vikings, lacking only full beards and horned helmets.

"Boys…" Slim was saying. "Allow me to introduce our housekeeper and den mother, Missus Daisy Cooper. Daisy, this is Tom, Duke and Heath."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miz Cooper," said the newest entrant in the tall, blond and handsome stakes… the real Tom.

"Welcome to our home. We're not as fancy as a hotel but we trust you'll be comfortable," Daisy stated bravely, wondering how the heck she was going to make that happen and where the heck everyone was going to sleep.

"I'm sure we will be, Miz Cooper," the one called Heath murmured, the soul of graciousness.

The one named Duke merely ducked his head and grinned. He didn't appear particularly bright.

"If you gentlemen would like to make yourselves comfortable near the fire, I'll have coffee ready in a jiffy. There's navy bean soup warming up on the stove." _There aren't enough muffins to go around but thank goodness I made extra biscuits this morning!_

Slim interrupted her. "Sorry, Daisy, but there's something else needs your attention first. I'll take care of the food and coffee."

Following his pointing finger to the bandanna tied above Tom's knee and the blood-soaked pants leg below it, Daisy slapped a palm to her forehead.

"Please forgive me. Slim told me about that and it completely slipped my mind in the confusion."

"Daisy's a nurse, Tom," Slim informed him. "She'll fix you right up."

"Not through those pants, though!" Daisy said primly. "Slim, take Tom to your room and find him a nightshirt while I get my medical kit ready… again."

"Miz Cooper... it's just a scratch." Tom protested, although his face had gone a bit greenish around the gills.

"If I hear that one more time tonight, I may scream."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Slim… get a move on."

The other two men stood aside in awe as the diminutive sweet-faced grandmotherly woman transformed into commanding general of the casualty ward.

"Boys," Slim apologized, "you'll have to help yourselves. Cups and plates and flatware in the breakfront. Cream in the icebox and sugar bowl on the counter."

"I got a better idea," Heath ventured. "While you're helpin' Miz Cooper, Duke and me'll go put up the horses. Least we can do."

"Thanks… I appreciate it," Slim answered, grateful for the offer.

##################

_**Slim takes charge…**_

Slim assisted as Daisy tended her third patient of the evening, cleaning and stitching what turned out to be a fairly deep wound, although the blade had missed major blood vessels. Her eyes were watering as she slumped with fatigue. Afraid she'd been pushed beyond her endurance, he felt guilty for having asked so much of this capable, big-hearted woman who was like a mother to him and Jess and a grandmother to Mike… and to Slim's brother Andy, when he came home on visits. While Daisy attended her patient, Slim went into her room and got a good fire going in the miniature stove, then pre-warmed the bed with hot bricks wrapped in thick flannel.

The patient himself had been plied with tea with a dash of laudanum and was bordering on stuporous. When Daisy'd tied and clipped the last stitch, Slim was right there, grasping both wrists firmly and raising her to her feet.

"To bed with you... right now!"

"But Slim, I haven't ... Jess isn't..."

"I'm sure Jess has sense enough to stay safe and warm. Probably holed up at Mort's place."

"But what if…"

"Hush, now. No arguments. You're going to bed and staying there if I have to lock you in! We'll clean up here after we're done eating."

In the meantime, the others returned from the barn. Slim shot them a glance. "You boys keep an eye on Tom for a few minutes?"

Heath and Duke nodded in unison.

Escorting Daisy to her room and seating her on the edge of her bed, Slim knelt down and removed her slippers. Moving the flannel-wrapped bricks out of the way, he caught her as she slumped sideways and made sure she was far enough away from the edge before spreading several quilts and a down comforter over her and tucking the bricks at her feet. She would probably wake up by herself in a few hours, undress and get under the covers properly.

Tom had gone to sleep at the kitchen table with his head pillowed on his arms. Slim woke him up, finished bandaging his leg and guided him to the bottom bunk in the bedroom. He then shifted the orphan from his own bed to the top bunk. The blow to the head must have taken all the belligerence out of the kid—he barely awakened. Lastly, Slim checked on Mike and Randy. Both were sleeping.

##################

_**Slim tidies up…**_

Slim ran a hand over his face, as if that would dispel the grittiness behind his wished he could just head for bed, but with Jess still out there somewhere on a night like this, he could no sooner relax than fly to the moon. And he still had to make sleeping arrangements for the unexpected guests.

Heath and Duke had fixed coffees for themselves and were snoozing by the fireplace. His own stomach rumbling, Slim realized they hadn't eaten, either. He shook them awake to join him for the very late supper at the parlor table. Afterwards, the pair not only volunteered to wash and dry dishes but took it upon themselves to move supplies from inside the front door to a staging area near the piano at the back of the kitchen, there to await distribution to other storage areas in the house. Slim insisted they return to the parlor while he cleaned up the rest of the mess.

A look around revealed things that needed attention—first of all, the kitchen table littered with Daisy's doctoring supplies, and blood-soaked towels on the floor. That 'scratch' on Tom's leg had managed to leak copious amounts of blood—enough that he'd been white-faced and shaky by the time she was done with him.

Struggling to keep up with demand, the new copper boiler attachment wasn't producing water sufficiently hot to sterilize instruments. Slim stoked up the stove and put on two kettles. Sluicing out the pink-tinged water from the enameled basin Daisy'd been using and replacing it with boiling water, a sliver of soap and a dribble of carbolic acid, he then dumped in the instruments. After washing, rinsing and drying them, he rolled them in their velvet case and placed them along with the suture silk back in the medical chest before restoring it to the shelf under the kitchen counter.

Gathering up the bloodied towels and Tom's britches and longjohns, Slim tiptoed down the passage past Mike's room and into the washroom where a tilt bin had been built onto an exterior wall specifically for soiled laundry. He lifted the hinged lid and dumped in the towels and clothing on top of the ones that had gone in earlier, including Randy's shirt. On the outer wall another hinged cover afforded access from the side porch near the wash boiler. Good thing it wasn't summer... all that coagulated blood would stink and attract mice, roaches, ants and other vermin. Whatever damp articles were in there now would be frozen by morning.

Returning to the kitchen, Slim summoned Duke and Heath to the kitchen table for what he was hoping would be a peaceful interlude and pleasant conversation over cups of freshly brewed coffee and slices of apple pie until time to turn in. It seemed Jess wouldn't be putting in an appearance that evening.

He should have known better…


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter 10:_** WELCOME TO THE HOSTEL**

**"**_**There are no strangers here. Only friends  
you haven't met yet."**_** • **_William Butler Yeats_

_**Arrival of the prodigal partner and friends…**_

Slim was delivering the punchline to an amusing anecdote when he was interrupted by a clattering outside, bypassing the house and heading toward the barn. Not just the _one_ horse, as expected, but multiple hoofbeats—possibly more than two horses. Slim resisted the urge to close his eyes and count to ten. His profound relief in Jess' safe arrival home far outweighed his exasperation with the man's tardiness—even if that likely meant that his poker opponent didn't have a place to stay, either. In which case Jess probably invited him home, along with some other equally noxious down-on-his-luck lowlife acquaintance from Jess' previous life. As if it weren't enough that their home was already burdened with a pair of renegade adolescents. _ On the other hand, didn't I just do the exact same thing? I don't know Heath and Duke from Mary's little lamb but I invited 'em home anyway. Didn't ask for his blessing, either, so wouldn't be fair to dump on Jess just 'cause I don't approve of his choice of guests._

Excusing himself from the table, Slim peered through the window over the sink where he could barely make out lanterns bobbing in and out of the barn. _Good luck, suckers!_ All eight stalls were already occupied and they were probably trying to figure out how to squeeze in extra horses. He could also see sleet becoming intermixed with snow—not yet sticking to the ground but would toward morning as the temperature dropped below freezing. The wind hadn't slacked off, either.

Regardless of his personal feelings, guests were guests and they'd be in need of coffee, sustenance and warmth. Duke and Heath both offered to help while Slim recharged the stove, one replenishing the fireplace and the other grinding the beans. By the time the latecomers had done with their animals and come up on the front porch, fresh coffee was on the boil and a strong blaze going in the fireplace. Hearing their bootsteps on the planks, Slim opened the door before Jess could get to it. Duke and Heath were out of sight, around the corner in the kitchen.

Jess blew in with someone else's saddlebags and bedroll over his shoulder in addition to his own. "Hey Slim... it's sure good to be home."

"You cut it awfully fine. Had us all worried."

"I know, I know… I'm sorry. I can explain."

"Of course you can. Wanna introduce your friends?"

The others had halted uncertainly just inside the threshold—one toting his own saddlebags and bedroll, the other unburdened and favoring his right hand. All three were wet as dogs and coated with ice crystals.

"Oh... uh... yeah... fellas, meet Slim. Slim, meet John and... er... Johnny."

Not the most illuminating introduction but Jess seemed to feel it was adequate. Perhaps, Slim thought, his partner felt that excluding last names would lessen the inevitable tension that full disclosure might produce.

"Hang your hats and coats on the rack over there—rigs, too, please. Dump your other gear wherever. Go stand by the fire... get yourselves thawed out." Except for the small veins on his temples that throbbed when Slim was agitated, he was maintaining cordial—if not exactly effervescent—tones. That and the fact that he wasn't making eye contact with him let Jess know he was in trouble as he made a beeline for the fireplace and stood with his backside to the flames.

The smaller of the two men spoke first. "Thanks, sir. 'Preciate it. If your partner and his friend hadn't helped me out, I'd be a whole lot colder right now... as in dead cold."

Slim didn't bother to correct him as to the 'friend' status of the other man—the poker player—whose face he now realized _was_ known to him from an incident he'd witnessed down in New Mexico some years ago. The face was older now—harder—but just as enigmatic as it had been at seventeen, his purported age at the time of the showdown, which made him mid-twenties now. He might be smiling pleasantly at his host, but the smile gave away nothing as he spoke.

"Yeah, thanks. For me it was a choice between a goat shed or an empty box car."

Duke and Heath then stepped into view, occasioning another round of introductions. Realizing he'd likely be hosting this crew for several days to come, Slim fought off a mild wave of panic. _How am I gonna square this with Daisy?_

##################

_**Updates in the kitchen newsroom…**_

"Would you excuse us for a minute?" Slim hooked a finger at Jess to follow.

"I'm real sorry, Slim..." Jess offered tentatively in the relative privacy of the kitchen.

"You already said that." Slim's eyes scanned the other's facial scrapes and contusions, and the barked knuckles Jess wasn't quick enough to conceal. He had a few choice words ready to deliver but—as always—concern edged out ire.

"You okay?"

"Yeah… I'm fine."

"What happened?"

"Grub George was about to make mincemeat outta Johnny Reb. You woulda tried to stop it yourself, was you there."

"I probably would've," Slim agreed reluctantly. "Where do you know _him_ from?"

"Uh... well... I don't... I ain't asked him yet but I'm pretty sure he's a Texas boy like me. He's got a busted up paw. Pretty sure it's worse'n he's lettin' on but we didn't have time to find 'im a doctor. Hope Daisy can do something for 'im. Uh… where _is_ Daisy, anyway?" Jess asked, taking in the relatively tidy surrounds with a raised eyebrow.

"I made her go to bed. She was all in. So let's make an effort to keep the noise down. We don't want to wake up the kids, either."

The other eyebrow went up. "Kids? What kids? We only got the one."

Slim held up three fingers. "We seem to have acquired a couple of teenagers. One's in with Mike and the other's in our room."

"Do I even wanna know?"

"I'll explain later."

"An' where's your friend Tom you was 'sposed to be bringin' along?"

"He's in our room, too. Resting. Daisy dosed him with laudanum."

"I'm confused…"

"Join the club," Slim said sourly. "Uh… Jess… what about your _other_ friend out there?"

"John? He ain't no trouble. He come in from Medicine Bow an' got caught short like everyone else."

"I seem to recall you mentioning something about a half-breed Mexican gunslick you rode with. That him?"

"That was years ago," Jess protested. "And just on the _one_ job. He weren't but fifteen or so then... a baldfaced kid. We ain't seen each other since, 'til today."

"I hear he's got a bad rep."

"No more'n anyone else. Let's just say I'm glad he never took a notion to call _me_ out!"

"You're admitting he's better... and _faster_... than you? That's one for the books!" Slim smothered a snicker. "You _have_ got soft!"

"What I got was _smarter,_ Slim... thanks to you takin' me in an' talkin' me inta stayin' on."

"Buttering me up isn't going to work, pard!" Slim shot him a grim smile. "He can stay... he'll _have_ to stay. But I'm making _you_ responsible for seeing to it no lead gets thrown around here. And right now we need to get you and your friends into some dry duds."

Sighing, Slim once again pulled out the medical kit and set it on the kitchen table. _ Gonna have to change the name of the place to Sherman Ranch, Relay Station, Travelers Hostel, Field Hospital and Home For Lost Boys._

##################

_**A knock on the door…**_

After assurances from Slim that the 'lady of the house' wouldn't be barging in on them, everyone shucked down to their smallclothes, changing into dry ones if they needed to. Clutching another round of scalding hot coffee, the guests continued toasting themselves by the fire. Slim conscripted Jess in rounding out what beans were left with sliced ham on cold biscuits while he cleaned and bandaged the rebel's battered hand as best he could.

Closing in on nine o'clock, six men in their undies were clustered elbow to elbow at the kitchen table—too full to move and too caffeinated to sleep. The initial tension and wariness had worn off somewhere between the sandwiches and the apple cobbler Slim was pretty sure Daisy had intended for dessert the next day—augmented by generous dollops into coffee mugs of the medicinal brandy Daisy kept under the sink. Topics of conversation had tacked a safe and steady course between reefs of contention and shoals of animosity—from the fracas in the saloon, the downed tree and the abandoned wagon to the possible intensity and duration of the weather event outside.

Though nothing much could be seen beyond the light of a lantern held at the open front door, the porch railings and deck were already coated with a thickening layer of frozen precipitation. Sleet rattled against the windows and could be heard pounding the tin roof through the attic space separating it from the interior ceilings. Slim kept an eye on the fireplace to ensure the occasional gust of wind sweeping down the chimney hadn't blown an ember onto the rag rug, despite the firescreen he had placed there. Even with the kitchen stove and fireplace going full blast, a chill was permeating the corners of the central living spaces.

Slim was contemplating this problem when—simultaneously—there came a knock at the front door _and_ the door to the hallway opened. In a collective intake of breath, right hands slapped legs devoid of pistols and bodies dove for the floor. Jess jumped up, knocking over his chair and sprinting for the rack holding the gunbelts.

Facing the hallway door, Slim found himself looking directly into the fuddled face of the teenager who was supposed to be indisposed until tomorrow but stood mute in the doorframe. He didn't have time for this. Turning on his heel, he went to join Jess.

Having snagged a gun out of the nearest holster in the cluster of gunbelts, Jess stood to the side of the front door. "Who goes there?"

"It's me... Emmett... and company. Open up!"

Jess unbarred the door to admit two ice-encrusted apparitions caked in white from hat to boots. Ice particles clung to the snowmen's eyelashes. He and Slim unceremoniously ushered them in.

"Drop your warbags wherever and get over by the fireplace," Slim commanded. "Get those wet clothes off. Stay right there while I get you some blankets. Jess... go get 'em some coffee, will ya? Better fortify it, too." _ Good thing Daisy's got more bottles of that brandy hidden in the root cellar._


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter 11:_** ENTENTE CORDIALE**

**"**_**Nothing burns like the cold."**_** • **_George R. R. Martin_

_**A matter of professional courtesy…**_

The deputy's teeth were chattering behind blue lips as he pulled off his boots and peeled down to his longjohns. The second man followed suit without speaking. Both were standing close enough to the fire to roast chestnuts when Jess returned with two mugs and Slim with an armload of blankets.

"What're you men doing out here on a night like this? Did Mort send you?"

Only after Emmett had gulped down an entire brandy-enhanced mug was he able to answer Slim's query. "Nope. Volunteered." The deputy wasn't known for being overly loquacious, although he was civil when addressed.

"Volunteered… for _what?_" Having only recently been introduced, Slim didn't know the man all that well. Everyone was aware of Emmett's reputation as an_ à la carte_ gunfighter, however—sometimes choosing to work on the side of law and order, at other times opting to ride on the wild side. It wasn't expected he'd stick around too long. Deputies never did. Slim couldn't imagine why he would've volunteered to travel twelve miles in a snowstorm.

"Man needed an escort an' Mort was worried."

"Worried about… _what?_ Is there some other problem I don't know about?"

"Can we... uh... talk privately?" Emmett cut his eyes to the others in the room, unable to see around the corner into the kitchen but aware of the presence of yet more individuals.

"No, we can't. There's not a private corner in the whole house."

The deputy blinked, seemingly disconcerted at the prospect of having to explain his presence in complete sentences. "Well... uh... Mort got to thinkin' 'bout those two fellas Jess left with. An' then he remembered who one of 'em was. Coulda told him earlier, but didn't. Guess I shoulda."

Slim finally got the picture—a matter of face and professional courtesy between a full-time gunslinger and a part-time one. "Rest easy, Emmett. John's an old friend of Jess' and Johnny's a new one. You're welcome to bunk in with us tonight. In fact, you'll have to. There's no way you can make it back to town."

The deputy shook his head in agreement. "Wasn't this bad when we started out. Already put the horses in the barn. 'Bout needed a shoehorn to squeeze 'em in. Hope you don't mind."

"Of course not." Slim turned to size up the so far unidentified other new arrival—another blond a tad shorter than himself, with patrician features and smoke-blue eyes—who'd been following the exchange with amusement and a reserved expression.

Not too many men could project _savoir-faire_ and carry off an air of casual elegance while modeling undergarments. But this one did—as out of place in present company as an Italian greyhound in a pack of English sheepdogs. He now offered a firm handshake.

"Scott. I'm afraid I'm the one looking for your desperado guest," he said apologetically.

"Slim. You a lawman, too?"

"No, I am not."

"Bounty hunter?" Slim didn't much care for bounty hunters.

"No to that as well."

Slim brushed aside a ripple of apprehension. "Sorry, but if you're looking to call him out, this isn't the time or place for it."

The other chortled. "Oh, I intend to call him _something_, but it can wait."

_What the heck does he mean by that?_

##################

_**Faceoff at the kitchen table…**_

While Slim was dealing with Emmett and Scott, John and Johnny were supporting Daisy's wobbly protégé, one at each elbow.

"Well now... who are _you_?" Jess queried as he approached yet another new face.

The kid peered at Jess as if trying to get him in focus. "Uh… Randy?"

"No, I'm Jess. What's your...?"

"_He's _Randy." Mike stumbled out of the hall, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and bumping into Jess' leg.

"Whatcha doin' outta bed, Tiger?" Jess pretend-scolded, scooping up the boy who was too old to be carried, though very small for his age.

Mike regarded the way his new roommate was being held by both arms and concluded he was in trouble. "Don't hurt my friend! Aunt Daisy already fixed him once an' I helped! She'll be mad if you hurt him again!"

"Is that a fact?" Jess commented drily. "What did she have to fix?"

"He got shot in the back, Jess."

"Did he now?" He arched his eyebrows at Slim, who'd come in to pour coffees for Emmett and Scott. "Where'd he come from?"

"Daisy's stray, not mine." Slim shrugged, as if to say _don't look at me!_

Wrapped in a blanket, toga-style, Emmett came around the corner and accepted a mug from Slim. As he stood there, blowing on the steaming brew, his eyes locked on John's. Their heads nodded slightly in mutual recognition but no words were exchanged—a vast relief to their host as it appeared no old grudges were going to be dusted off tonight. A minute later Scott strolled in and halted, disapproval oozing from every pore as he, too, settled a menacing gaze on the same individual. Slim sighed, handing him a mug.

John flinched and backed up against the piano._ Oh shit!_ _What's Scott doin' here… an' how'd he find me?_

Slim missed the nonverbal exchange as his attention was redirected when the door to his bedroom squeaked open and Tom hobbled out, squinting against the lamplight. Slim put down the pot and hustled over, offering a steadying hand.

"You shouldn't be on that leg, Tom!"

"I'm good... heard all the talkin' out here and... oh... we havin' a party?"

"No, Tom... it's just..."

Evading Slim, Tom continued toward the kitchen alcove, grinning and holding out a hand to the nearest stranger—which happened to be the deputy. "Howdy... I'm Tom."

Emmett had to put down his coffee to free up a hand as the other was clutching the blanket. After that, everyone else pretty much felt obligated to shake hands and swap introductions.

_More glad-handing than a political rally_, Slim thought. "Would someone put Mike back in bed where he belongs."

Mike immediately put up a fuss. "Noooooooooo... I wanna stay!"

Jess tried to reason with the boy to no avail. Mike didn't often throw tantrums... but when he did, they were epic. In the midst of his howling, yet another figure emerged from Slim's bedroom and joined the crowd.

"How d'ya 'spect a fella to sleep with all this yammerin'?" the orphan runaway griped loudly, adding "Shut up, will ya, kid?"

Mike immediately ceased his wailing.

"Goldarnit!" Jess snapped. "_He's _the other one? We're overrun with Johnnies—we'll have to call that one 'Johnny Mac'!"

In the silence that followed, there came _another_ hammering at the front door. Everyone froze.

##################

_**A case of mistaken identity…**_

It was Slim's turn to go for the door as Jess had his arms full. He didn't even bother grabbing a gun or asking who was out there, just threw the bar and yanked it open. The next visitor seemed frozen in place. Slim reached out and dragged him in by the collar of his sheepskin jacket, failing to notice the shorter individual standing behind him before slamming the door shut. The man was shaking so violently he couldn't speak as Slim propelled him over to the fireplace. An ice-caked muffler obscured his lower face. He managed to lift one arm, mumbling and waving a gloved hand toward the door.

"What're you trying to say?"

From the croaking noises bleeding through the muffler along with a barely audible tapping at the door, Slim deduced there was someone else still outside. As he reopened the door, that someone lurched in and fell flat on the floor. Thrusting Mike at Heath, Jess rushed over to assist the second man.

Slim escorted his charge to the prime location directly front of the fireplace, facing the man as a removal of gloves and tortuous unwinding of the muffler produced a well-known though not particularly welcome face with pale blue eyes—the very _last _complication Slim needed at the moment. Not even counting whoever was on the floor. _Lord, what have I done to deserve this?_

"I sure hope you already put your horses in the barn, Josh."

Jess had hoisted the second individual to his feet and was peeling him like an onion. The innermost layer yielded yet another adolescent—short, with hazel eyes, mouse brown hair and a guileless chipmunk-cheeked face that looked like its owner ought to have been in short pants, in spite of the gunbelt Jess encountered on the way.

Slim spared the new kida glance before turning to the bounty hunter. "Cohort or collar?"

"Neither," Josh shrugged. "We just met in the barn. Claims he scouts for a wagon train."

Slim sniffed. "Don't see many twelve-year-old scouts."

"Seventeen… almost," the purported scout squeaked, all the while staring at Jess with eyes wide as saucers.

"Whadda _you_ lookin' at?" Jess growled, stepping back. "You seen a ghost or somethin'?"

"What're _you_ doin' here, Coop?" the boy asked, completely ignoring Slim. "You're 'sposed to be in St. Joe."

"Look, kid… I don't know who you think I am but…"

"It's me, Coop—Barney," the youngster pleaded.

About that time, Duke returned from his trip to the convenience down the hall. Catching sight of the latest arrival, he stopped dead in his tracks and his mouth fell open.

"Barney? What the hell?"

"Duke? You're here, too?"

"You two know each other?" Jess asked unnecessarily and was ignored by the flustered kid.

"Duke… what's wrong with Coop? He's actin' like he don't know me."

Duke craned his neck around and studied Jess. "By gum, you're right! He looks just like Coop! Wonder how come I didn't notice that right off?"

"I _ain't _Coop, whoever he is!" Jess argued.

Slim intervened. "Could we put this off until these two are dried off and warmed up?"

"Sure thing. I'll get the coffee and start another pot."

Slim just shook his head. _Why am I not surprised that half the inmates in this asylum should know one another?_

##################

_**A custodial disputation…**_

The blanket-clad bounty hunter backed far enough away from the fireplace to afford a clear view of the men in the kitchen nook. He hadn't personally met the person he was chasing, but had a very good description. Dismissing the one he recognized from wanted posters—at some time or another but not recently—he briefly considered the next man. Nope, too old. His steely gaze appraised the trio set a little apart from the others. One had too-dark hair and the runty blond was too short, leaving only the taller, sleepy-eyed blond who fit the description but was much younger than expected.

Nodding his head in their general direction, he remarked to Slim, "There's the one I'm after. Trailed him from Cheyenne."

_Cheyenne?_ Slim wasn't the only one mistaken as to which individual had been selected, assuming it was the _known_ gunhawk. Emmett and Scott had made the same assumption.

"Wait just a minute there, son!" Emmett growled. "I'm the deputy on this patch. Anybody gonna make any arrests, it's gonna be me."

"Sorry to disappoint you gentlemen," Scott cut in, "but his ass is _mine._"

"I ain't never been to Cheyenne in my whole life," John lied.

"Me neither," Johnny claimed.

"Weren't my fault," Randy mumbled with downcast eyes.

Slim took over, having had enough, and raised his voice. "Listen up, everybody. We're all stuck here together because of an act of God, so as far I'm concerned, this is _my_ church and I'm declaring sanctuary for everyone under _my_ roof for the duration."

"You can't do that!" Emmett objected.

"I can and I am. To quote Sir Edward Coke: _A man's house is his castle and fortress… and each man's home is his safest refuge._"

"Who the heck is this Coke yahoo?" Jess demanded.

"Never mind. We're all gonna get along and get through it best we can. There'll be plenty of time after the emergency's over to sort out everything. Are we agreed? Yes? Good! No one's gonna be arrested tonight. Mike… Randy… you two, back to bed right now. Tom, Johnny Mac… same for you. The rest of you… last call for grub for anyone who's hungry." _ Who died and appointed me ringmaster of this here circus?_


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter 12:_** DON'T TREAD ON ME**

**"**_**The intelligence of that creature known as a crowd  
is the square root of the number of people in it." • **__Terry Pratchett_

_**Room restriction…**_

Behind him, Slim heard someone going 'pssst pssst'—Daisy, of course. A single cornflower blue eye peered through the cracked door.

"Hang on... I'll be right back," Slim announced, trudging across the parlor and slipping through into her room.

"What in Heaven's name is going on?" Daisy whispered.

"Believe me, Daisy, you don't want to know. Just go on back to bed. I'll explain in the morning."

"Just _how many_ people are out there, Slim?"

"I've lost count. Do you have any extra quilts and blankets and pillows in here?"

"Yes... in my steamer trunk, but..."

"Keep as many as you need for yourself but I'll need all you can spare."

"Slim, are you going to be all right? You look terrible."

"Everything will be fine, Daisy. Don't worry yourself. I'll take care of it."

"Well, if you say so. Hold on a minute and I'll load you up."

Daisy pried open the heavy lid of the great trunk and started lifting out folded blankets. Slim set an armful outside her door on the nearest chair and went back in for more.

"I just thought of something, dear. Didn't you tell me there were some old buffalo robes up in the attic?"

"You're right. I'd forgot about them… probably moth-eaten."

"They'll do to spread on the floor, Slim, and you can put blankets over them."

"Great idea. I'll go up directly and throw 'em down."

"Are you sure you don't need me to…?"

Slim took both her chilled hands in his big warm ones and stared down imploringly into her eyes.

"What I need, Daisy, is for you to get a real good night's rest because I'm depending on you to take over trail bossin' this herd in the morning. Soon's I get 'em all bedded down, I'll try to get some sleep myself."

Mollified, Daisy promised to stay in her room until morning.

##################

_**Wet clothes and new rope…**_

The clock struck midnight before the herd calmed down enough to start showing signs of fatigue. Slim paused to inventory the motley complement of strandees (not counting himself, Jess, Mike and Daisy). The 'knowns'—a lawyer (former tourist), a deputy sheriff (sometime gun-for-hire), a gunfighter/mercenary (allegedly turned rancher), a bounty hunter (universally despised) and a teenage orphan (unrepentant delinquent). The 'unknowns'—an adolescent drifter on the run (reason unknown), an itinerant rebel (with a _cause passé_), a ranching family scion (possibly _baton sinister_), a gentleman (on a murky mission), a wagon train scout (full-size) and an apprentice scout (half-size). _ Any minute now I'm going to wake up from this worst nightmare ever…_

Outside, the blizzard was gaining momentum. In his wildest dreams, Slim Sherman couldn't imagine a more ludicrous—and potentially disastrous—situation. Part of him wanted to crawl into a dark hole and pull it in after him. But the rational part reminded him that, as master and commander of the ship, it was up to him to keep it from capsizing. His head was pounding as he orchestrated sleeping arrangements and helped make up pallets on the floor with the four ancient buffalo robes and the dozen not quite threadbare Indian blankets rooted out of the attic.

Then there was all that damp clothing. Fortunately, the new ropes Slim had purchased just that morning had been brought into the house instead of the barn, so that whipping and honda knots could be accomplished at leisure in a dry, warm environment. Thanks to Duke's towering height, Jess' industry and many roofing nails pounded into exposed beams, laundry lines soon festooned the parlor, kitchen and washroom. Hopefully all would be mostly dry by morning.

There was also the delicate matter of sanitary facilities for that many individuals. One of the water barrels in the washroom was partway tipped out and designated a sacrifice to biological necessity. Emptying it would be a problem for another day. Thanks to Daisy's foresight there were on hand ample supplies of Gayetty's tissues and back issues of newspapers and other periodicals.

After a short debate and some grumbling that _everyone's _rest would be disturbed, it was agreed that the alarm clock would be set for every two hours—not because a guard was needed, but to restoke the fireplace, the cookstove and the auxiliary stoves in the washroom and back bedroom. Straws were drawn and a rota set up. A short discussion ensued, ultimately resolved with more straws, as to who would be venturing outside in the morning to see to the livestock… and how that was going to be accomplished. But that was then... and this was now. One by one the men retired to beds and pallets. Slim was the last to put his head down.

_What was it Ma used to quote at Pa, when he'd take on about something not going right? Seem to recall it was from Book of Matthew… about taking care of today's problems today and not worrying so much about tomorrow until it gets here._


	13. Chapter 13

_Chapter 13:_** DAYBREAK HATH DONE BROKE**

**"**_**And this that you call solitude is in fact a big crowd."**_** • **_Dejan Stojanovic_

_**SUNDAY, APRIL 5**__**th**__**… Daisy's bedroom…**_

Daisy was always the first one awake in the morning and usually the first one up and about as well. But not this morning. For one thing, the bedroom was so cold she could have seen her breath had there been any light to see by. For another, she was entirely too comfortable, completely encased in several sheeps' worth of wool blankets—three pairs of socks, a knit cap, a cardigan over a winter-weight flannel nightgown, and multiple layers of quilts plus the comforter. Her nose—the only exposed portion of her anatomy—might be cold, but the rest of her was deliciously warm.

Shortly after Daisy had joined the household, Slim and Jess modified the front bedroom—which used to be Jonesy's and Andy's—by installing a miniature Swedish glazed ceramic tile stove on a raised hearth. It was rarely used during the day because Daisy was never awake in the room long enough to warrant needing a fire. It was kept at the ready, though, requiring only a touch of the match to fat-lighter splinters poked between the logs. The fire had died out hours ago. She was giving some hard thought to scurrying out of bed just long enough to get a new fire going, then burrowing back under the covers, when there came a scrabbling of fingers against the door.

"Daisy, it's me. You awake?"

"I am, Slim. Come in."

Slim eeled through the door, leaving it slightly ajar so he could see his way. "Thought you might like tea instead of coffee." Not just her favorite porcelain cup and saucer but the teapot itself in a knitted cozy along with sugar bowl, creamer, strainer, silver spoon and serviette… all neatly arranged on a lacquered oval tray which he carefully set down on her bedside table. After lighting the oil lamp, he closed her door.

"You're a treasure."

"It's like an icebox in here, Daisy. I'm going to start the fire."

"That would be lovely."

Daisy extricated herself enough to sit up as Slim poured her tea and doctored it just the way she liked it. Handing over the cup and saucer he then turned to get her little stove going.

##################

_**Roll call…**_

"Is it safe to venture into the parlor? I heard more people come in last night. Who all is out there?"

"Maybe not just yet, Daisy. Let's see… in our bedroom, there's me, Jess, Tom and Johnny Mac…"

"Johnny Mac?"

"The orphan kid. Then there's your rescue pup Randy in with Mike. Jess' friend John's on the sofa and their new friend Johnny's on the couch. His wrist might be broken. I wrapped and splinted it best I could last night but you'll need to have a look when you hold clinic. Mort's new deputy Emmett's on the floor in front of the fireplace along with the bounty hunter, Josh… and two wagon train scouts—Duke and Barney. Then there's Heath—his family ranch is near Stockton in California, and Scott… not quite sure of his status. I think that accounts for everyone."

"Good grief! How could this have happened, Slim?"

"Why does _anything_ happen around here, Daisy? This used to be such a quiet, _peaceful_ place… until…"

"Don't say it, Slim. Don't even _think_ it!"

"If you don't believe me, just ask Andy next time he's home. He'll be the first to tell you how our lives got turned upside down and inside out the day that Texas tornado blew in."

"Jess is hardly responsible for acts of nature."

"I'm not so sure about that." Slim was shaking his head, but grinning as he did. "Seems like ever since he got here every misfit, maverick or lost soul in the territory has turned up on our doorstep. And every month… heck, every _week_… we're visited by some new misfortune or downright calamity."

"I have to get dressed and start breakfast… all those men will be famished."

Slim held up a hand. "No, Daisy, not this time. I want you to stay in here for the time being. Jess and I'll see to getting everyone fed."

"I don't understand. Why can't I…?"

_Because things definitely aren't normal in the House of Sherman._ "I don't have time to go into details, but those men out there… well, some of them might be rough trade. I want you out of harm's way until I'm sure there won't be trouble."

"But Mike… he's just a little boy…"

"If I see there's a need for it I'll send him in here to you."

"My patients need tending."

"We'll see to them, too. You're indispensable, Daisy—you know that. But before you arrived Jess and I _did_ manage to survive an entire year without poisoning or shooting each other or burning down the house. I think we can manage _one_ morning. One of us will bring you breakfast in a little while. Promise me you'll wait 'til I come for you?"

Though not at all happy about being banished from her own kitchen, Daisy understood Slim's position and didn't push the issue. She would have liked to remind him that she had spent several years of her life amidst the roughest trade of all: bloodied, battle-weary soldiers. There were very few aspects of a man's physical or mental condition that she hadn't encountered, and had come to consider herself unshockable. Furthermore, she had lived too many years and survived too many sorrows to harbor any fear of death. It would come when it would come. But Slim wasn't in the habit of making specious requests or imposing silly restrictions.

She decided that just this once, the men out there… whoever and whatever they were… could look after themselves. "Well… all right. If I must."

"Thanks, Daisy." With that, Slim exited the room and wound his way around recumbent bodies to get back to the kitchen.

##################

_**Keeping up appearances…**_

The stove gave off waves of welcome heat and the one-gallon coffeepot—the one they put on for stageline passengers—gurgled on one back eye, with the 'family' pot brewing on another. Glancing out the window at the whiteout conditions prevailing—the barn was invisible—Slim gave thanks that his nearest and dearest were protected from the elements within the walls of this modest but sturdy dwelling… and all the others, of course. Even those of dubious character. As a boy he'd had the concept of Christian charity thoroughly drubbed in by both parents. It was reasonable to hope that all… or most… or even only a few… of his storm-stranded guests had enjoyed a similar upbringing. Furthermore, that all… or most… or even just a few… were capable of practicing forbearance in unusually crowded conditions.

Slim was stropping one of the big butcher knives when he heard the squeal of a hinge on the door to his and Jess' room. _Dang… I meant to oil that thing days ago._ He stopped in mid-stroke, blinking in surprise, as a bleary-eyed and darkly-stubbled Jess shuffled into the kitchen. It usually required repeated threats and the occasional pitcher of cold water to flush him out of bed in the morning. Given the opportunity, he'd sleep 'til noon. Jess could in fact catnap anytime, anywhere and under just about any conditions.

"Coffeedonewheresdaisywhatchadoin…?" Or at least that's what the mumbled baritone query sounded like to Slim.

"I was afraid this was going to be too much for Daisy. I talked her into sleeping in and told her _we_ would take care of it."

"We?" Jess reached up to snag a china mug off a hook.

"Go do whatever you need to do and come back here and help me. I've already got water heated up on the washroom stove. When you're done shaving, refill the kettle for the next man."

"I gotta shave?"

"I did… just like it's another ordinary day. Keeping up appearances supports morale."

Jess looked around in vain for the fixin's. He liked his joe light and sweet.

"Sorry. Daisy has the cream pitcher and sugar bowl. You want some right away you'll have to get another bowl and chip some sugar off the cone yourself. If you have to have cream, you'll have to go downstairs and bring up a pitcher."

"Reckon I'll just take it like it comes, then," Jess grumbled, shuffling toward the hall to the washroom, mug of black coffee in hand.

"And _please_ don't loiter," Slim called after him. "I really need your help here."

Brandishing the now-honed knife, Slim returned to what he'd been about to do—carve thick pink slices off a whole sugar-cured ham. A slab of bacon rested nearby, awaiting its turn on the cutting board. By the time Jess returned fifteen minutes later, clean-shaven and marginally more alert, Slim had put aside the meat destined for the skillet and was assembling biscuit ingredients. He and Jess could achieve passably edible biscuits and bread and he didn't want to deplete Daisy's bread supply at breakfast as they'd be needing it for dinner.

"Looks like you got it all under control," Jess grinned. "Maybe I'll just catch me another forty winks."

"Not if you want any breakfast. I really do need the help and I promised Daisy we could take care of feeding all these folks."

"Just kiddin', pard." Catching the note of desperation in his friend's voice, Jess clapped him on the shoulder. "Already restoked the washroom stove an' refilled the kettle. Tell me what you want done an' I'll do 'er."

"Need more eggs, butter, milk, cheese, potatoes and onions from the root cellar… oh… and cream. Daisy brought up enough yesterday to fill the icebox… but she wasn't anticipating this many guests."

"I'm on it. An' don't worry—ain't nothin' we can't handle together!" With that, Jess turned and headed for the cellar stairs. _ Just don't know how ole Hardrock can be so laid back about everythin'… hardly nothin' ever throws 'im for a loop. Doubt I could be that calm an' collected if the responsibility was all on me._

##################

_**The doppelgänger…**_

Out of the corner of his eye, Slim glimpsed a slight figure scuttling toward the washroom…that baby-faced cub that Josh'd hauled in. _Ah, the resiliency of the very young!_

Presently the boy returned, approaching Slim with respectful reserve. "Anything I can help you with, sir? I'm a pretty fair cook."

"Is that so?"

"Yessir. A fella learns to do a lot of different things on the trail."

"Can you do biscuits?"

"Yessir, sure can."

"You're hired, then."

Slim made room at the prep counter. The boy rolled up his sleeves and got right to work. He seemed to know what he was doing. After a few minutes Slim cut him a sideways glance. "Name's Barney, right?"

"Yessir."

"So you and Duke both scout for the same outfit… with this 'Coop" person?"

The boy paused. "Yessir, he's..."

Barney trailed off in mid-sentence as Jess emerged from the cellar door, shivering.

"Gonna hafta make six trips down there, Slim, an' it's colder'n a witch's…" He stopped when he caught the kid gawping. "Don't start with that again, son. I ain't in the mood_._"

"Sorry," the boy mumbled, clearing off a section of counter but continuing to give Jess odd glances until he disappeared back downstairs.

"Barney… you okay? What'd he mean by that?"

"Nothin', sir… it's just that… never mind. D'ya have any baking powder?"

##################

_**Breakfast gets underway…**_

Slim was mighty glad he'd yielded to Daisy's entreaties and earlier that year had replaced the vintage four-eye relic with a brand new Round Oak deluxe cookstove with brass fittings. It sported six eyes, a main oven and side oven below and twin warming ovens in the hood above, which meant a lot of food could be cooked in advance and kept warm until time to serve. The cylindrical boiler attachment with pipes circulating water through the firebox kept twenty gallons of water hot for on-demand use—as long as the stove was in operation, of course, and the reservoir refilled frequently. At first Slim and Jess had pooh-poohed the 'water heater' as an unnecessary frivolity, but in very short order they'd come to appreciate its advantages. What wouldn't inventors think of next?

In the interval between Jonesy's departure to escort Andy to his St. Louis school and Daisy's arrival to keep house and mind their new adoptee Mike, Slim and Jess had been obliged to fend for themselves, domestically speaking… gaining in the process a new appreciation for the lot of the housewife. Learning to cook beyond beans and bacon had been one of their more satisfactory accomplishments, although neither could claim culinary excellence. Certainly neither had ever been called upon before to furnish a meal for this many mouths at one sitting.

It took every bit of Slim's concentration to juggle the pots and pans and skillets on those six eyes. No time to spare for mingling with guests or issuing instructions as nominal head of household. Thus, leadership of the first outdoor odyssey defaulted to Jess on this hellaciously cold morning. Jess didn't mind being too hot, but he truly hated being too cold. In his private estimation, Hell was a frigid wasteland—a freezing desolate place.

Some of the other men were starting to rouse, one after another, lured from their pallets by full bladders and the tantalizing aroma of frying bacon on the stove and biscuits in the oven. With admirable politeness and probably not customary restraint, they visited the washroom in unkempt pairs and returned to don dry clothes if they had any and damp ones if they didn't.

In the unspoken spirit of cooperation that sometimes evolved independent of organizational structure, the men began sorting out what needed to be done… including rolling up bedding material and finding out-of-the-way temporary storage niches for that and the assortment of gear they'd brought in with them. Mostly-dry duds were reclaimed from the makeshift clotheslines. The men wisely stayed well out of the way of the breakfast production team, which now included Johnny Mac, who'd naturally gravitated toward Barney—the only other male near his own age in the kitchen.

##################

_**Expedition planning…**_

With exaggerated concern for maintenance of personal space, everyone else congregated near the fireplace, discussing with Jess the best way of safely getting out to the barn with visibility next to nothing in the blowing snow. All were well aware of instances of men becoming disoriented in similar conditions… freezing to death between houses and outbuildings, with salvation only footsteps away. As their injuries rendered them unfit, Randy and Johnny Reb sloped off to the washroom and Tom—similarly excused—was still abed.

"We'll rig a safety line from the front porch," Jess instructed. "I'll be first one out 'cause I'm pretty sure I can get a fix on the barn an' secure the other end of the rope. We'll hafta run another one out to the front pasture from the barn and corral, one from the porch to the well pump, an' one from the barn to the broodmares' stable in the back pasture."

The others nodded in agreement.

"If Slim and Tom hadda left town earlier instead of waitin' on me an' Duke," Heath observed, "y'all coulda already had lines in place."

"Or if Slim hadn't of been hung up in that meetin'," Duke contributed. "Or if that tree hadn't of blocked the road."

"Or if I'da left McGuire's when Slim wanted me to," Jess shook his head. "Wouldn't of gained us more'n two or three hours, anyway. An' we wouldn't of been around to help out Johnny or Johnny Mac."

"Coulda got your stock in closer to shelter," Heath said.

Jess shrugged. "Woulda, coulda, shoulda. None a that matters now. Let's just concentrate on 'gotta', boys."

"How much stock we talkin' about?" John queried, ever compassionate towards the well-being of animals… _any_ animals.

Jess answered. "I make it a baker's dozen in the barn, plus—in the shed and stables out back—a bull an' a milk cow, a half-dozen outta-season feeder calves an' a donkey, four mares an' two yearlin's. Another fourteen coach an' saddle horses an' two mules in the front pasture—they're prob'ly sheltered up under that stand of cottonwoods in the northwest corner. We'll hafta barrow some hay out to 'em an' throw it over the fence. An' we'll hafta break ice on all the troughs."

##################

_**Supposition and speculation…**_

Not having been party to the entirety of the previous evening's events, Scott and Josh stood at the periphery with equally enigmatic expressions and no relevant comments to add, useful or otherwise.

Josh was doing his best impression of a cat surveilling a mousehole in a baseboard. _How'd a simple job like this—catch and retrieve a harmless teenage witness—turn into such a fiasco? If I hadn't been flat broke and needin' that two hundred dollars…_

Scott was attempting to project an aura of indifference, as if being trapped in this ridiculous situation were an everyday occurrence. _If that rascal brother of mine thinks he can avoid me forever, he's got another think coming. This irresponsible behavior has got to stop!_

Emmett lounged nearby with arms folded, wearing his usual deceptively amiable mien though keenly aware of the tension underlying Scott's reserved demeanor. _Man claims he's brother to that halfbreed Mexican but that's pretty hard to swallow. Ain't a speck of family resemblance. Wonder what they're really up to?_

Heath was silently congratulating himself on having finally recalled where he knew Scott from—two years ago, Central Valley Cattlemen's Convention in Fresno…_ I escorted Mother down from Stockton and Scott came up from near Bakersfield with his father. Mother and Scott's father were old acquaintances. Scott's brother don't look anything like him… then again, I don't look like my brothers, either._

Barney was desperate to have a private word with Duke about their head scout's lookalike, but so far there hadn't been a single opportunity. _No way can Coop and this Jess NOT be related… if not brothers, then cousins. Even their voices are the same… and that gap between their front teeth… and the way they waggle their eyebrows!_

Johnny Mac was furtively admiring his current hero—Laramie's deputy sheriff. His ultimate goal was to someday be worthy of occupying the position Emmett now held. _Maybe when I'm a little taller and more filled out… and old enough to have a real job, make enough money to buy a horse and a gun and learn how to shoot… I'd be the best lawman this territory's ever seen._


	14. Chapter 14

_Chapter 14:_** THE HOUSE OF REFUGEES**

**"**_**It's snowing still… however, we haven't had an earthquake lately."**_** • **_Eeyore_

_**Washroom pleasantries…**_

The lawyer limped out of the back bedroom, halting to parse out what was going on with the fireplace gang before proceeding to the washroom. Mike—Slim's foster son, he recalled—was just leaving… no trace of the tantrum-throwing brat of the night before. They exchanged 'good mornings'.

At one mirror, the kid with the bandage around his torso was lathering up, although Tom couldn't see that he actually needed a shave. Gawky as a yearling colt, he was obviously still in his mid-teens and had some filling out to do.

"Mornin', Randy." Tom was one of those rare individuals born with an affable personality, sailing along through life cheerfully oblivious to the fact that _most_ people needed a little more lead time to get started on their days. Accepting that modesty was at present an unavailable commodity, he took care of business before washing up and leaning against the sink while waiting for a shave station to open up. "You work here?"

"Nossir. Just passin' through on my way from Cheyenne. Heard some outfits up around Medicine Bow might be hirin' on."

Something clicked in Tom's head… something he'd read in a newspaper picked up at the Medicine Bow stop: a botched bank robbery in Cheyenne—a deputy wounded, two customers and a teller killed, one suspect escaped though wounded, another dead and a third in the jailhouse. Of the only two eyewitnesses who could positively identify the holdup men, one had succumbed to a fatal heart attack a few hours later and the other had disappeared after being treated for a gunshot wound. Now he was needed back to testify at the trial.

At the other mirror the older, shorter, shirtless man with the bandaged right hand was trying to shave himself with his left hand and making a hash of it. In addition to that, he was wearing an impressive number of scrapes and bruises. Slightly built with a prominent scar on his chest directly under the heart, he owned the sort of wiry musculature that often accompanied a nature blessed with an overabundance of nervous energy.

One speculation on Tom's part led to another. _Is it possible that the two men with razors in their hands at this very moment are the escaped outlaw and the missing witness? Is it the bounty hunter's intent to claim both of them? Was last night's pointing finger cunningly trained only on the one suspect to preserve the element of surprise before snatching the second one? _Tom didn't want to spook anyone or cause trouble under Slim's roof, so he kept those thoughts to himself as he took Randy's place after the latter gathered his things and departed.

"Good morning… John, is it?"

"Johnny."

"Call me Tom. You live around here, Johnny?"

"No."

_Plainly not in a conversational frame of mind…_ Tom should have dropped it right then, but couldn't help himself.

"Came in on the train from San Francisco myself. You?"

"Rode up from Denver."

_Okay, so that blows that theory_. _Unless he's lying._

##################

_**Short man problems…**_

The compact Texan continued his self-mutilation in stubborn, stoic silence and barely contained anger, mostly at himself for not moving quickly enough to avoid having his wrist smashed. He cursed his own inability to give up gracefully when it was perfectly obvious shaving was a futile endeavor this morning. And he had a few harsh thoughts concerning parents who failed to pass along certain desirable traits to their offspring—specifically, height. _Maybe it's God's fault. Seriously, is five more measly inches of height too much to ask for?_ It wasn't easy, being short, small-boned and slick-chested in a world full of tall, musclebound men, hairy fore and aft. And when words like _runt, pipsqueak, small-fry, half-pint, peewee_ and _shrimp_ were hurled in his direction, why, that was like waving a red flag in front of a bull! A pygmy bull. A _Lilliputian_ bull! So yeah, he had an attitude. Who wouldn't? To add insult to injury, here he was packed in a sardine tin of a house crowded with great hulking, grinning six-plus-footers… one of whom was looking at him with compassion right this very minute. At least none of them seemed to be overly hirsute.

"Would you like some help with that before you bleed out and scare the crap out of Missus Cooper and the children?" It was said kindly and in a gentle voice with no hint of condescension.

Staring at his own crimson-ribboned reflection in the blood-speckled mirror, Johnny sighed with frustration. Suppressing the hostility that was trying to own his soul, he handed over the straight razor.

"Thanks, Tom. I'd appreciate it…"

##################

_**Prioritization problems…**_

The bounty hunter was keeping his counsel at the planning party convening in the parlor—finding himself in a _very_ frustrating position. He'd had no trouble at all tracking his quarry, who hadn't made any attempt to hide and couldn't really be considered a fugitive. It was obvious to Josh the boy was merely resuming his original journey to wherever and probably completely unaware his presence was required to give testimony back in Cheyenne. Strictly speaking, there wasn't any paper out on him, merely an assignment to recover the witness and return him to the scene of the future trial. At present there was no urgency… neither he nor the youngster were going anywhere. On the other hand, Josh was contending with a dilemma of a fiscal nature. As of this morning there were, theoretically, within his grasp three _other_ individuals with outstanding warrants, the apprehension of any one of whom potentially offered a far greater reward than the two hundred dollars agreed on for retrieving that witness. Naturally, there was this depthless chasm between anticipation and realization.

That deputy—oh yes, Josh had recognized him. On-again off-again gun for hire. Might be a Wyoming deputy now, and for a while last year in Montana, but his face still decorated wanted posters in South Dakota, Nebraska and Kansas. He'd be good for a few thousand dollars… if there were a way of turning him in three different times.

He'd heard plenty about that half-breed gunslick, who operated just inside the law—therefore, wasn't 'wanted' by any agency. However, many wealthy citizens in Arizona, New Mexico and Texas—bereft of fathers, brothers, sons or friends—all wanted a piece of that one… mainly his head on a platter… and would pay handsomely to get it. In addition to which he was worth _mucho dinero _on the other side of the border—not a place Josh had any intention of visiting.

But the biggest prize of all lived right here on this ranch with, if memory served, at least one five hundred dollar reward on a Texas warrant and a whopping five thousand dollar bounty offered by a private party in Colorado. Of course, those were both several years ago and might not still be active.

And what about that long, tall drink of water with the Eastern accent and fussy manners… who claimed to be the half-Mex kid's brother? He sure looked like a man with a price on his head _somewhere_… probably a professional swindler or embezzler.

_In your dreams, Joshua old son! As enticing as the prospect of corralling all of them might be, it's completely preposterous. But a boy from Alabama can fantasize, can't he? One never knows when a prime opportunity might arise._

##################

_**Sibling rivalry…**_

The _former_ pistolero was stewing over his current predicament. _¡__Madre de Dios__!_ He thought he'd made it perfectly clear that the personal mission on which he was embarking was just that—_personal_… which it wasn't, really. At stake was the security of his home and family—information that had come to his attention during the course of a marathon poker game three weeks ago in Sacramento.

Scott had traveled on ranch business to the _de facto_ state capital. John had just gone along for the ride. As his presence wasn't required in the state representative's office, John had entertained himself elsewhere. Among the players in the low-stakes game were some blowhards trying to upstage one another with the importance of their respective positions within the Public Lands Commission.

Granted, John didn't understand the legalities of Spanish land grants, but what he _did_ grasp was that the commission was charged with examining ownership rights and was empowered to revoke such rights for the common good of the state. Their lips loosened by liquor, the government lackeys casually discussed various _ranchos_ under investigation… including a certain hundred thousand acre holding in the San Joaquin Valley. The men had no idea that one of their number at the table happened to be part-owner of that particular operation… and he wasn't about to let on. Instead, he paid close attention as names and connections were revealed—who was paying whom to aggressively pursue ensuring that particular holding was at the top of the list for revocation of the original land grant.

The evening wore on and John sat tight, his head bursting with information that would undoubtedly create strife within the family: from deep pockets back east, funds were being funneled through a series of heavy hitters from a state senator in Massachusetts to a representative in the territorial legislature of Wyoming to a banker in Sacramento. John was convinced those deep pockets either belonged to Scott's grandfather in Boston—whose antipathy towards Scott's and John's father knew no bounds—or the old man was the instigator of the plot. Either way, he had to be involved. John now had all the names in the pipeline except the money handler in Cheyenne.

The braggart who'd been braying the loudest was the courier between Sacramento and Cheyenne and would be returning there on the morning train. Realizing he needed that last puzzle piece before confronting his brother with the unsavory facts, John determined to follow the man to _his_ overlord and extract a confession… by the gun if necessary. But… if he shared this intel with his father and brother, they would stop him from doing anything _his_ way. He wanted to do this on his own and present them with a _fait accompli._

In retrospect, John figured he should have inserted a red herring or two in the cryptic note he'd left for his brother in their hotel room. He should have known that Scott would misunderstand his reason for leaving so abruptly and assume the worst. Else why would he be here?

If John were honest with himself, there were other reasons behind this solitary venture—for one thing, the uncompromising autocracy of his father during that first difficult year… and the lingering fear he'd never _quite_ measure up to the perfection of his big brother. Scott had made his share of errors, too—but he'd stood up for himself and accepted responsibility, whereas John had cut and run rather than face his mistakes. Admittedly his father had gone easier on him as he learned to follow the rules the old man had handed down, endeavored to be a dutiful son, surrendered his freedom for the benefit of the ranch. As to the ongoing drudgery of ranch maintenance… well, that was something that would never change. And occasionally he still felt like a square peg in a round hole.

There'd been times in the past four years when John'd thought longingly of recapturing those heady days of being his own boss, answering to no man and reveling in his reputation. Somehow, it just wasn't the same… not to mention most of his peers were retired… or dead. No, he was a rancher now and this was his chance to prove he was capable of contributing more to their empire than physical labor.

John sure wasn't looking forward to going outside although he accepted the necessity—both in social obligation to his host, and in the humanitarian sense that trapped animals needed feed and water. He damned sure didn't care for the way that bounty hunter kept squinting those beady unblinking eyes at him.

As far as John was aware, there wasn't any _official_ paper out on him, but the trail of death he'd left all over the Southwest generated many _private_ bounties offered by relatives of the men he'd killed. John already knew which areas to avoid, but it hadn't occurred to him until now that he _could_ be captured and dragged back to one of them. He'd be keeping an eye on that bounty-hunting _bastardo_, all right! It wasn't worth worrying about the deputy just yet—as long they remained under a mutual friend's roof.

_Worst of all is that Scott's tracked me down… guess I'll have to explain everything to him, then he'll either try to talk me out of it or insist on coming along._

##################

_**Selective law enforcement…**_

The deputy also wrestled with a dilemma. As a duly sworn officer of the law he had an obligation to apprehend and incarcerate—or attempt to, anyway—whatever felons turned up in his jurisdiction. On the other hand, he wasn't a complete idiot. Sure, he had a reputation as a fast gun… but so did that half-breed kid, who was younger and likely had sharper reflexes. The only reason Emmett was out here in the first place was due to the sheriff's worry for the Shermans' welfare… and to avert any possible recidivism on Jess's part if overexposed to an unsavory influence from his past. So far, though, the deputy had detected no cause for concern. Aside from yesterday's barroom brawl—the genesis of which Emmett hadn't personally witnessed—the half-breed seemed temperate and non-aggressive. Emmett couldn't remember having ever seen a wanted poster on him. Thinking, too, of the massive volume of paperwork involved in an extradition process, he elected to leave well enough alone.

The Eastern dude was a last-minute add-on. Having arrived in a private compartment on the eastbound train, his queries regarding what he claimed to be a runaway brother had led him straight to the sheriff's office. Though both sheriff and deputy doubted the kinship assertion, the description given by the dude matched that of the man they'd seen with Jess the night before.

Emmett had no quarrel with the bounty hunter. They'd never met personally, though Emmett knew who he was, knew of his reputation for fairness. Knew also, from a telegraphed advisory from the marshal's office in Cheyenne, that Josh's quarry wasn't a criminal—so that was two he could strike off his suspect list. That left the two purported scouts, which instinct informed him were exactly what they claimed to be. Certain he'd seen that other blond Californian somewhere, Emmett scored a mental question mark next to that one.

Then there was that runaway orphan… well-known to Emmett, who as a matter of fact liked the boy and truly didn't want to have to return him to an unendurable situation, even though he was bound by law to do so. Johnny Mac had often expressed an aspiration to becoming a lawman as soon as he was old enough… maybe even sheriff some day. His problem wasn't so much age, though, as hotheadedness and a tendency to scrap. Emmett had quietly been lobbying the Murphys to take on the boy as clerk and errand-runner at their general store. Plus, with their own children long grown and gone, they had room enough to provide a proper home for him. They were nice people in all respects who would treat him fairly and with kindness. Emmett was positive they could set Johnny Mac on a surer path to attaining a career in law enforcement. There were some legalities involved in getting the board in charge of the county workhouse to revoke the contract that in effect made bound servants of youngsters like him, but Emmett was working on that, too.

_As for the rest of 'em, whenever I get back to the office, I might get around to sifting through that file drawer of old wanted posters. Or not._

##################

_**Exercises in perplexity …**_

Acutely aware he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, the oversize scout muddled through a couple of puzzling issues… such as how scout-in-training Barney had fetched up in this out-of-the-way flyspeck on the map. The boy had wintered over in Sacramento along with other members of the team and should've been traveling with them eastward toward Independence, where the new season's emigrant trains would soon be organizing with the aim of setting out in early May. Duke's departure had been delayed due to involvement in a particularly brisk waterfront saloon brawl, resulting in incarceration on a drunk and disorderly charge. By the time he'd been let out of the pokey, the others had gone ahead without him, so he had no idea how Barney had got separated from his companions. And what about this Jess person, who looked like he could be the twin of their head scout? It sure did bother Duke's head that he hadn't noticed the uncanny resemblance until Barney'd reacted the way he had. But he had more important things to think about at the moment and couldn't do both.

The husky blond Californian with the odd name said little, accustomed as he was to being verbally steam-rolled by his intimidating and slightly taller half-brothers back home—one educated and eloquent, the other simply loud and belligerent… not to mention an iron-willed stepmother and headstrong half-sister. Product of a semi-casual union outside of marriage and prior to assimilation into his biological father's wealthy and powerful family in the upper San Joaquin Valley, Heath had traveled far and wide and indulged in an eclectic variety of occupations—not all of them socially acceptable or even legal. He'd cataloged enough life experiences and skills to deal equitably with outlaws, lawmen, bounty hunters, mustangers, wagon trains, frontier life, deep sea fishing, Indian skirmishing, range wars, border wars, civil wars and small-scale independent cattle ranching. Somehow or other, though, he'd never had to tough out blizzard conditions. In no position to contribute useful advice, pretty much all he could do here was look lively, pay attention and make himself useful. In the meantime, he wondered how long it would take Scott to remember their having met a while back at that cattlemen's convention.


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter 15:_** TEAM ONE SALLIES FORTH**

**"**_**Remember that everyone you meet is afraid of something,  
loves something, and has lost something."**_** • **_H. Jackson Brown Jr._

_**Breakfast is served…**_

Barney and Johnny Mac, aided by Mike pointing out where to look, had put out all the plates and cutlery they could find, including tinware usually reserved for trail use. Aesthetics weren't a consideration here. Slim told them not to set places, just stack the items at one corner of the table. There weren't enough chairs to go around nor room at the table for everyone to sit at once… it would have to be load a plate and musical chairs without the music. Or find a place to hunker down. When the kitchen table was laden with bowls and platters, Slim called everyone to queue up and dig in. And while they were busy doing just that, he prepared a tray for Daisy as promised and carried it to her door.

"Come in," she answered to his knock.

Daisy was fully dressed in one of her more austere outfits—what Slim laughingly referred to as her 'Whistler's Mother' ensemble minus the lace cap. Painted just three years ago, the portrait was already famous, having been reproduced most recently in _Godey's Magazine_ to which Daisy subscribed. She'd done her best to pull her hair back into a forbidding knob but the natural curls insisted on escaping to frame her elfin face, which at the moment wore a thunderous expression. She sat stiffly erect at her little escritoire, furiously tapping one small foot and drumming her fingers on the pull-down writing shelf.

"How long must I languish in my room?" she exploded. "I've heard no gunshots or other sounds of distress. I have work to do and I see no reason why I can't get to it!"

"Just a little bit longer… please, Daisy? The men aren't done dressing yet… they'd be terribly embarrassed if you walked out now." A little white lie but a necessary one, Slim deemed, mentally crossing his fingers as he set the tray down on her desk. The room temperature was at a comfortable level but needed another stick or two of kindling, which Slim poked in. He didn't want Daisy to come out just now… and be confronted with the stroke-inducing shambles of her kitchen. Yes, he and Jess _could_ cook, but they weren't neat about it.

Daisy leaned forward and investigated the items on her breakfast plate, nodding approvingly. "This looks very good, Slim… your guests should be pleased. Will there be enough to go around?"

"There's a gracious plenty. These storms never last more than two, three days at the most. We'll make out just fine."

"Very well, then. I'll enjoy my meal… but in one hour_, I'm coming out!"_

"I'll make sure everyone's got his pants on!" Slim vowed, although it wasn't their pants he was worried about.

##################

_**Procession of the storm troopers…**_

At the last minute, Slim volunteered to lead the first team, knowing Jess wasn't exactly at his peak in the morning under any circumstance. Besides, he needed a break from the kitchen. Jess hadn't objected. He was content to continue playing host… and staying warm.

Daisy emerged from her lair just as Expeditionary Force One was preparing its initial sortie out to the barn. The men were indistinguishable—bundled in multiple layers of clothing and gloves, topped with long woolen mufflers securing hats to heads then wrapped around necks and lower faces. Each carried a coil of rope and a lidded tin bucket. Their only visible parts were their eyes.

As they waddled toward the front door with stiff elbows and knees rendered practically inflexible, they looked like a quartet of bison playing dress up. Standing in the doorway to her bedroom, Daisy had to hold her breath and clamp her jaws to keep from chortling. Then the reality of what they were about to do brought her heart up into her throat.

Daisy had no way of knowing their identities but assumed the one in the lead must be Slim as Jess and Emmett were manning the front door. "Be careful! And don't you dare let go of that rope!" The bison at the head of the line inclined his entire body in a gesture of acknowledgment as there was no way he could move his neck.

Once the bar was lifted and the bolt thrown it took the doorkeepers' combined weight to prevent it from being violently blown inward. The four men shambled outside as quickly as they could, which wasn't fast enough to prevent great gouts of snow and blasts of arctic wind from funneling into the parlor, blowing loose papers off Slim's desk and extinguishing oil lamps.

"Close it! Close it!" Daisy shouted in alarm over the noise of the wind. Jess and Emmett put their shoulders to the door, leaning into it with all their might. John ran forward and dropped the bar into place.

"Mike, would you please get the mop and bucket. We have to get this up before someone slips and falls." Though Daisy was shaking like a leaf, her voice was steady and authoritative. "And would one of you gentlemen mind building up that fire before we all freeze to death?"

Mike immediately went to the door of the root cellar where cleaning implements and supplies were kept in an alcove at the head of the stairs. Knowing how Daisy dealt with fear by focusing on practical matters to get her mind off it, Jess took her hands in his and coaxed her toward her rocker by the fireplace. John was already kneeling at the fire, layering in cedar splits and handfuls of fat lighter pine kindling.

"Daisy… you just sit right down here 'til the room warms up some. Don't you worry about a thing. We got it all worked out with the ropes an' stuff. Ain't nobody gonna get lost in the snow." Jess pulled down the comforter draped over the back of the rocker and tucked it around her. It was already warmed from having been near the fire and felt wonderfully cozy. Wrapping a length of flannel around a hearth-heated brick, he positioned it at her feet on the ottoman before tucking under the other end of the comforter. Heavenly!

With his plummy voice dropping two octaves, that sly rascal was doing his utmost to slather her in pure unadulterated double-distilled Harper charm. "I know you mean well, dear… but I have work to do… the kitchen…" she demurred.

"No you don't. You just sit here an' tell us what needs doin'. How's about a nice cup a tea? Won't take but a minute."

"I'm already awash in tea but…"

Jess had an ulterior motive for keeping Daisy in the parlor and the center of attention. Her natural ebullience and zest for life drew strangers to her company as moths to a flame—even the shyest among them would soon open up in the warmth of her spritely nature. She would have a discussion group going in no time. Tom and the teenagers—Randy, Johnny Mac and Barney—were banished to the parlor along with Mike to keep Daisy company and out of the way.

"Got a couple a fellas for ya to meet, Daisy. They come in after you went to bed last night."

"I need to see to my patients," Daisy fretted. "Will you let me know as soon as the kitchen's clear? And I'll need boiling water first."

"I promise! Just as soon's we're done an' the table's cleaned off. Meantime, here're the new men. This here's John. Me an' him go way back."

##################

_**Miss Daisy receives…**_

The first introducee was still kneeling at her feet attending the fire. He stood up and brushed litter off his pants before offering his hand. _My, but he's a looker!_ She might be old, but she wasn't dead yet. He had dark wavy hair and blue eyes… about the same height as Jess, maybe a little less. She figured his age as early twenties.

Although she hadn't lived in the West long enough to distinguish between someone of Indian heritage and someone with Mexican blood, she thought this man could be one or the other. Curiosity having got the better of good manners—and reasoning that age had its privileges—she came right out and asked him.

"My pa's Scots, ma'am… and my mother Mexican, from Tamaulipas. That's a state in Mexico, but I was born in California."

_Such a soft voice…_ "She must be a great beauty, John."

"She was, thanks." The young man ducked his head shyly. "She's dead now."

"I am so sorry. Are you an only child?"

"No, ma'am. I got a brother… a half-brother, but he don't look like me. He takes after our pa." John deliberately didn't bring up the _other_ half-brother, the illegitimate one who _did_ look like him, but whose relationship was even more convoluted.

"Pity," Daisy commented as the handsome young man backed away, obviously reluctant to reveal any more personal information.

_That one's pretty enough to tread the theater boards on Broadway. He'd have legions of women swooning at the stage door._

The next young man was also slightly built but a little shorter, with corn silk blond hair and pale blue eyes. Up close Daisy judged he was closer to late twenties. His fox-like face might have been attractive had it not been recently decorated with cuts and bruises. He was definitely favoring his bound right hand. "I'd like to have a look at that before dinner. The way your fingers are swollen, you've probably got some broken bones."

"I believe you may be right, ma'am. I'd appreciate that." He exhibited the exquisite manners that seemed to be a common denominator among Southern boys brought up in genteel society—not at all the illiterate, cob-rough backwoodsman which, unfortunately, was how many Yankees perceived Southerners.

"Where do you hail from, Johnny?"

"Born and raised in Texas, ma'am… like Jess. And like him, I no longer have any family there so I don't call it home. Mostly I travel… and write about it. People, places… how the nation's rebuilding itself since the war."

"Do you categorize yourself as a journalist… or as an historian?"

"Mostly the former, Miz Cooper. Many books've already been written about the war… how and why it happened, detailed accounts of battles won or lost. I'm more interested in people… the survivors… how civil war impacted their lives and influenced their ways of thinking. I believe it's important that my children—when and if I ever have any—grow up with a balanced view… so that they won't repeat our generation's mistakes."

"A worthy aspiration, Johnny. I wish you the best of luck in your endeavor."_ And sincerely hope that you survive to follow your dreams, young man._

The third new face belonged to a teenager with a disarming grin and wide hazel eyes under a mop of light brown hair. He identified himself as Barney, a friend and co-worker of Duke's.

"The wagon train scout I met yesterday evening?" Daisy queried with a dubious expression.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm a scout, too."

"Isn't that rather a dangerous occupation for one so… for your age?"

The boy pinked up a little but defended himself. "I'm almost seventeen, ma'am. Been with the outfit since I was fourteen. This season'll be my third crossing."

"What about… er… family? And school?"

"Oh, I got family. We're just not blood kin. The wagonmaster sees to it I get my book learning and all. Then there's our cook and the other scouts… they all look after me, too. It's like having a whole bunch of uncles. Never knew my father and my mother died right after I was born. My grandmother raised me… she passed when I was twelve."

Sadness momentarily flickered on his young face. "They were gonna put me in the county orphanage, so I ran away and kept going 'til I hooked up with Mister Chris' outfit and they took me in."

"I see," Daisy said. To an extent she _did_ understand… the boy's situation wasn't unlike life on the Sherman ranch—where unrelated folks had cobbled together an unconventional family out of necessity.

_There's at least one tragic story that will end well if the boy's mentors are as competent role models as he says they are._

##################

_**The end of the queue…**_

Jess seemed reluctant to present the last man, putting emphasis on 'bounty hunter' in such a manner that Daisy was meant to understand this was an occupation held in lower regard than dogcatcher… or the city sanitation workers whose honeywagons plied alleys at night, emptying the contents of citizens' pail closets. Having only a vague idea of what 'bounty hunter' entailed—locating and apprehending criminals beyond the reach of law enforcement officials—Daisy assumed it was a dangerous, physically demanding job requiring considerable bulk and brawn. Frankly, this bantam-statured specimen seemed an unlikely candidate. The texture and color of his close-cropped hair put her in mind of a curly-coated terrier.

Josh admitted he was originally a city boy from Birmingham, Alabama—the product of a middle-class family… banker father and music teacher mother still living and a sister, Joslyn, about to graduate with a nursing degree from Women's Medical College of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia.

Though not as imposing or as attractive as the others, he was somehow appealing in a small dog sort of way and conducted himself in a courtly and gracious manner. Daisy sensed the strength and determination lurking below the serious exterior.

_What on earth is a nice young man like him doing in such an unsavory profession?_

_**Kitchen comedians…**_

Daisy was informed that one of the individuals she'd not yet met was currently outside with Slim. After bringing Daisy her tea, Jess headed up a clean-up team of Emmett, John and Josh to carry on what Tom and the teenagers had already started. With much stomping on one another's toes and intersecting elbows in the limited space, the squad found its rhythm and settled in to finish restoring the area to a semblance of order. At one point the fugitive retrieval specialist and the three _former_ (possibly current) gunfighters paused to take stock of one another, each with a flour sack apron tied around his waist and brandishing what could have been described as a weapon of choice: Jess with an eggbeater, John with a toasting fork, Josh with a can opener. Emmett, standing off to the side in one of Daisy's pinafores and clutching a flour sifter, was the first to see the humor in the tableau. A snicker escaped, followed by a snort as the lawman fought to keep laughter from erupting. Jess chortled and from there contagion spread rapidly. Soon all four were doubled over in unrestrained mirth, tears leaking from the corners of their eyes.

"Eggbeaters at dawn," Jess croaked, "In the courtyard."

"You ain't got a courtyard," Emmett pointed out.

"In the stableyard, then."

"Which one of us are you challengin', Jess?" John queried.

"You! No… wait a minute… make that Emmett. I'm the fastest egg beater in the West!"

"Challengee gets to choose, my man!" Emmett reminded him. "I choose cast iron skillets at twenty paces… can't hardly miss my target."

"You callin' me fat?" Jess exclaimed indignantly.

"Naw, naw… I just got a better throwin' arm, is all."

"Do not!"

"Do too."

"Just wait 'til the next baseball game an' we'll see who's the better pitcher!"

"What's baseball?" John the Scourge asked.

Mike poked his head around the corner. "Aunt Daisy says you're havin' too much fun in here."

"Is that right?" Jess retorted, still grinning like a fool.

"She said to tell you stop messin' around an' get busy cleanin' up."

"Oh she did, did she?"

"Yeah… cuz she needs to start dinner soon."

"An' how would she know what needs cleanin'? She ain't been back here yet."

Mike's face was all earnestness. "Aunt Daisy said to tell you she's got… has… eyes in the back of her head."

"Tell me somethin' I don't already know!"

"And she can see through walls, too… so you better do it or else!"

John sidled up to Jess, speaking _sotto voce._ "You mean to tell me a legend like you lets hisself be bossed around by a little old lady?"

Rolling his eyes in mock fear, Jess clutched at his chest. "You don't understand… Daisy's word is law around here. We don't get busy, we'll get sent to the woodshed for sure. So… who wants to wash and who wants to dry?"

##################

_**Miss Daisy presides…**_

Daisy felt like the Queen of Hearts on a throne surrounded by courtiers. Shyness on their part was steadily receding and they each made an effort to participate in polite conversation. Tom held the floor as he had the most experience with public speaking. His naturally congenial nature worked like oil on rusty hinges to loosen the tongues of the reticent. He had the gift of not only telling enthralling stories but eliciting them from other people. Unlike others who sought to hold center stage, Tom knew how to encourage another speaker with well-timed interjections.

Jess came around the corner, drying his hands on a dish towel, to inquire if anyone needed more tea or coffee. Daisy glanced up at the mantel clock, shocked at how much time had passed since Slim and his teammates went out.

"Surely they should be done by now! Hadn't someone ought to check on them?"

"There's an awful lotta stock to feed, Daisy. An' I 'spect it's gonna take longer than usual gettin' the barn cleaned out."

"But why? Why can't they leave that until tomorrow or the next day?"

Jess hunkered down. "Well, usually there's only seven horses in the barn, one in each box stall. That makes cleanin' up pretty easy 'cause there's room to work around'em. But last night we had thirteen horses in there… six of 'em roamin' loose in the aisle. I reckon you can imagine how much…"

"Actually," Tom butted in, "there are statistics on barn waste."

"You're pullin' my leg!"

"No… it's true… let me think on it a second here… yeah… I remember now… a stabled, average-size horse, say about a thousand pounds or so, excretes approximately fifty pounds of sh… manure every single day. Plus, that generates an average of eleven pounds of soiled straw. So that's sixty-one pounds times thirteen… I make that almost eight hundred pounds of waste in a twenty-four hour period."

"They ain't been in there that long, Tom… only since last night."

"Okay… so only half that amount is still four hundred pounds that has to be raked and shoveled… and then replaced with clean straw."

"That's rather too much information, Tom," Daisy said faintly. "But quite illuminating just the same. Would it hurt the animals that much to have to stand in it for one day? That was my original question."

"Hate to say it, Daisy, but it's likely to be more'n just one day… an' we gotta walk around in that barn, too," Jess said.

"Oh dear."

"It's against the law, too," Tom added.

" 'Scuse me? You joshin' us again?" Jess's squiggly eyebrows clashed and shot upwards.

"No. Really. It is. Well, maybe not here yet, but the ASPCA…"

"The who?"

"American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. They've been successful in getting laws enacted against neglect and abuse of livestock in other states. Already won a couple of suits in New York City. They expect to have an office up and running in Cheyenne by the time the territory achieves statehood."

"Well, that ain't likely to be anytime soon."

"Maybe not but…"

Tom's scholarly dissertation on manure management was interrupted by insistent hammering on the door.


	16. Chapter 16

_Chapter 16:_** PARLOR PHILOSOPHY**

**"**_**It's only snow. If someone were building a giant sled  
for two of every animal, then I'd be worried."**_** • **_Unattributed_

_**Mission accomplished…**_

The return of Team One occasioned a repetition of the consequences of their departure, complicated by the four of them standing just inside the door in an ever-widening puddle of snowmelt, mud and manure as they shucked layer after layer, aided by Jess and John. One of them had a goodly number of chicken feathers frozen to his person. Another appeared to have milk squishing out of the tops of his boots.

Emmett grabbed a broom to assist the mop and bucket brigade—Mike and Johnny Mac—in stemming the tide before it spread too far. Though not wanting to leave the warmth of the fireplace, the housekeeper in Daisy was mortified, itching to leap up and take charge.

The four pseudobuffalo eventually resolved themselves into Slim, Duke, Heath and the man she hadn't yet met, who'd divested himself of enough outerwear that a comparison was now possible. Like his fellow team members, he was lofty, blue-eyed and light-haired… and that's where the similarities ended. He wasn't as broad-shouldered or heavily muscled, and moved with the languid grace of a cat. 'Sleek' was the word that came to Daisy's mind.

The original fireside occupants yielded frontage space to those in need of thawing. With apologies, they crowded in front of Daisy as close as they could stand near the fire, providing her with an eye-level panorama of belt buckles and butts as they rotisseried one way then the other. It was all she could do to keep a straight face… not entirely due to the radiant heat amplifying the mingled odors of dung, raw milk and wet socks.

##################

_**Slim provides a sitrep…**_

Jess hovered nearby impatiently, finally reaching out to tap Slim's shoulder. "So… how bad is it out there?"

"Bad enough, but we'll make out okay long as we stay roped to the lifelines. Got one rigged from the porch to the barn, one from the corral to the front pasture gate, and another from the cow pasture fence to the mares' stable."

"Everything all right in the barn? No fightin' or anythin'?"

Slim chuckled. "We had a time forking around all those legs but we finally got most of it. Had to empty the barrow right outside the door… which means we'll have to move the pile later when it thaws."

Duke was grinning. "Heath and me thought it was plumb funny how all them loose nags kinda squoze up next to each other… reckon they figured they'd stay warmer thataway."

Heath spoke up. "Slim said to go ahead an' leave the doors to the stalls open so all of 'em could move around some. Tried to turn 'em into the corral to stretch their legs but they flat out weren't havin' none of it."

"Just goes to prove horses have better sense than some people," Slim mumbled, holding his chapped hands practically in the flames.

Jess snorted. "Lemme guess who drew the short straw an' hadda milk that dadblamed cow!"

"Yeah. Ha ha. Real funny. My fingers and feet were so cold I didn't realize half the milk was going into my boots."

"Did anyone think to gather eggs?" Daisy inquired timidly.

"Yes, Miss Daisy… I did," Duke said proudly, picking a speck of down off one eyebrow. "It was a tussle but I got every one of 'em!"

Mike was tugging at Slim's belt. "Didja feed my pets?"

"Well, of course. And they're all fine. The snow piled up on top and around their cages is keeping them insulated."

"What about the mules and the coach horses?" Jess asked.

Slim's smile faltered a bit and he shook his head. "No sign near the fence. They must be banded up under the trees."

Daisy voice was anxious. "How long will this last, do you think?"

"If we're lucky, two or three days … maybe longer," Slim shrugged. "Even after the storm itself passes, drifts'll likely be too deep for travel and we'll still be snowed in. Could be a week before anyone can ride out. I'm afraid we're all stuck with one another for the duration. We'll just have to make the best of it."

##################

_**The last man comes forth…**_

Someone announced that a fresh pot of coffee was available and the fireplace congregants melted away to the kitchen… except for the fourth man, who'd hung back from the others. He came forward without hesitation and bowed over Daisy's extended hand. "It appears I must introduce myself. I'm Scott, and you must be Mrs. Cooper." He spoke with impeccable drawing-room diction. "Very pleased to make your acquaintance, madam."

_Oh my stars and garters! A gentleman of the old school… _It had been a long time since Daisy's ears had been assailed by such a pronounced New England accent and precise enunciation of present participles. Although émigrés were usually quick to adopt the more relaxed Western modes of verbal communication, identifiable overtones of cultural origin managed to persist. _Boston, I surmise, so no stranger to snowstorms. Educated, too. I'm guessing one of the big four—Harvard, Yale, Princeton or Dartmouth._

"Please, won't you have a seat?" Daisy waved at the temporarily unoccupied chair nearby, then reached down to poke the boy scrunched up between her rocker and the hearth. "Mike, would you please fetch a cup of coffee for Mister Scott?"

Mike scrambled up, eager to prove himself useful. "Cream an' sugar? I mean… would you care for cream and sugar, sir?"

"No thank you. Black is fine."

Mike bounced away and returned almost immediately with a china mug brimful of stout black brew—only a little had sloshed over into the saucer that didn't match. Thanking him, Scott took a sip and winced. When Daisy murmured that Scott didn't seem to be as affected by the cold as the others, he smiled and confirmed her conjecture. "I moved to California from Boston some years ago, but I still haven't gotten used to winters without snow. I'm rather enjoying this, aside from the imposition on your household, of course."

"I'm from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, myself," Daisy said. "One would think I'd be accustomed to heavy snow and subzero temperatures, but I have to admit I'm not. Perhaps it's just my advanced years. I'll be very happy when this storm blows over."

"As shall we all," Scott agreed. "Some more than others. My brother over there, for instance—cold-blooded as a reptile. Panics at the first snowflake."

_Brother? _ "Excuse me… did you say _brother?_ One of those young men is your _brother?_"

Scott nodded toward the back of the room, where a threesome arrayed on the big sofa were engrossed in conversation—Emmett, Johnny Reb and John. "The one on the right is my younger brother, John. He's the reason I'm here… to convince him to return home."

About to comment that Scott's brother was a little old to be running away from home, Daisy thought of another dark-haired individual still struggling with the occasional inclination to kick over the traces and run free. "Forgive my unseemly inquisitiveness, but would you mind explaining?"

Scott raised an eyebrow. _Why would a nice elderly lady be interested in the trials and tribulations of a dysfunctional family? But she seems keen and it's rather comfortable, sitting here by the fire._ "John had a rough start in life—completely the opposite of mine. We're still getting to know each other—and our father. The three of us first met just four years ago."

Daisy's antennae quivered. "Please, do go on. Whatever do you mean by _the three of us first met?"_

It was an intriguing story, culminating in Scott having left the city he called home to visit his nominal father—a man he couldn't recall ever having met in person, discovering a brother about whom he'd never known, and renouncing the culture in which he'd been reared to embrace a lifestyle he could never have imagined.

"Do you miss it? Society and civilization? Being a gentleman of leisure?" Daisy inquired softly.

Scott shrugged. "Every now and again, yes… but less often as time goes by. I was a different man then. How about you? This must be a radical departure from your former existence as well. Are you happy here? Do you ever wish you could go back?"

For a moment Daisy was taken aback. As of the day of her arrival on the ranch, everyone knew of the circumstances that had brought her west, but no one had ever asked her that particular question. "Truthfully? Given the choice, I would have preferred to remain in my home in Pennsylvania. Coming out west was my husband's idea, not mine. He believed a new start would ameliorate our grief at losing our son in the war. He sold our home and invested the proceeds plus all our life savings in what later turned out to be a fraudulent venture.

"Edward passed unexpectedly soon afterwards, before we could make the move. I went to live with a sister and immersed myself in volunteer nursing until the end of the war, at which point I was left with no financial resources other than what turned out to be a nonexistent store in a fictional town. But I didn't know that until I got here… penniless, with no way to get home even if I'd had a home to return to."

"That must have been a frightening experience for you, a woman alone."

"It was at first… but I wasn't allowed to dwell on it any longer than it took Slim and Jess to offer me a place here. I've had no cause to regret my decision to accept. So, in answer to your question… yes, I'm very happy here. On the two occasions I've traveled to visit my eastern relatives, I've found myself anxious to return home… which is here, not there. Past sorrows can't be undone or forgotten, nor should they be—they have their place in shaping us into what we are today and how we conduct ourselves in the future… but one can choose to tuck them away and concentrate on creating new, happy memories."

Scott nodded in understanding. "It was hard for me, too, that first year… adapting to a radically different lifestyle and learning how to coexist with a stranger—a father who was every bit as authoritative and implacable as the grandfather who raised me. I viewed it as a challenge that had to be met. Thanks to my military background, I was able to succeed.

"The transition was much more difficult for John—suddenly thrust into a world of social structure and expectations his upbringing had never prepared him for. Our father demanded immediate behavior modification and unquestioned obedience. Learning to cope with that and accepting responsibility was a real struggle for him in the beginning. There were… incidents. Eventually he settled, though. I'm at a loss to understand what triggered this latest escapade… unless he's got himself into some sort of trouble he can't get out of." _Why is it that unburdening one's self to a complete stranger is such a cathartic experience?_ Scott wondered, concluding with, "Perhaps I should leave him be to work things out for himself."

"Oh no… you mustn't give up now!" Daisy exclaimed. "The Bible says _'stand firm and you will win life'_… in this case, his life."

Scott shrugged. "I'm afraid I'm not much of a believer, Mrs. Cooper."

"Regardless of whether you are or aren't," Daisy insisted, "you must agree it's not just coincidence that's brought you together… in this circumstance where he can't possibly avoid you."

"You may have noticed he's doing a pretty good job of avoiding me so far."

"Nevertheless, you must persist. If nothing else, you deserve an explanation. Furthermore, if he _is_ in trouble, you have a duty of care."

Scott stood, sighing. "I'll keep that in mind, Mrs. Cooper, and I promise I'll try to talk with him."


	17. Chapter 17

_Chapter 17:_** PARLOR GAMES**

**"**_**There is a story behind every person…  
a reason why they are the way they are."**_** • **_Marc Chernoff_

_**Kitchen logistics…**_

Outside, gale force winds continued to whip falling snow sideways. Inside, a force of one was reasserting sovereignty over her kitchen. Another less resourceful housekeeper might have quailed at the prospect of feeding eleven extra mouths on short notice but Daisy had faith she was equal to the task._ Grant me the strength, O Lord, to turn theoretical loaves and fishes into satisfying sustenance for all these young men._

Other than eggs, they weren't in any danger of running out of vittles, but certain menu accommodations had to be made, volume-wise. Before engaging in meal matters, however, there were other issues in need of attention.

Daisy called Slim into the kitchen for a conference.

"Is there a problem?"

Daisy sighed. "I can manage with what's in the root cellar, but eggs will have to be rationed and bread will be in short supply. It would be helpful if you could bring in some meat from the ice house."

"We'll give it a try, but I can't promise anything. Depends on how deep the drifts are in front of the door. What else?"

"While I'm seeing to my patients, could you arrange getting all that moved downstairs?" She nodded at the boxes of produce and sacks of supplies still occupying the piano bench and stacked on the floor nearby.

"Your wish is my command," Slim grinned, putting both hands on her shoulders and kissing her on the forehead. "Got any special instructions for _me_?"

Daisy raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I expect you'll have quite enough to do keeping the troops entertained."

##################

_**Establishing a routine…**_

With the kitchen table set up as the nursing station, Daisy saw to Tom, Randy, Johnny Mac and Johnny Reb in turn. The orphan's head wound had scabbed over, requiring no further treatment. Tom's and Randy's stitches were holding—no sign of infection. Fresh bandages were applied and the patients dismissed. From the condition of Johnny Reb's swollen, battered hand and inflexible fingers, Daisy suspected he'd sustained several fractures of the carpal and metacarpal bones. Before binding and splinting, she directed he sit with his hand immersed in a bowl of packed snow in an attempt to reduce the swelling. Four baleen stays from a long-unused corset provided just the right amount of support for the splints, padded with cotton gauze. Linen strips wound from knuckles to elbow ensured the wrist would remain immobile until such time as the victim could be seen by a doctor.

With the table cleared off and restored to its original function as a work surface, Jess, John, Duke, and Heath formed a brigade to shuttle supplies down to the cellar and other items back up as requested by Daisy—buckets of potatoes, onions and cabbages, crocks of butter and cream, slabs of brined beef brisket, sacks of flour, cornmeal and jerky, and a gallon tin of D.E. Foote's Baltimore oysters.

In the meantime, Slim rummaged through the bottom of the triangular corner cabinet by the front door, coming up with several packs of well-worn playing cards, a box of dominoes, a checkerboard and a chess set—enough, he hoped, to keep everyone occupied during the long afternoon that stretched ahead of them. Sorting themselves into pairs, the prospective gamers set up wherever they could find available horizontal surfaces, some of them sitting cross-legged on the floor on folded-up buffalo robes. Not everyone was inclined to sociability—Johnny Reb chose a book from the library and claimed a corner of the sofa. Removing his guitar's protective covering, Randy commenced tuning up his battered but serviceable instrument.

Conversation dwindled to modulated exchanges as the men got down to some serious gaming. Randy finally settled on a key that suited him and was softly strumming a familiar, soothing melody that filled in the background without being distracting. Overall, an atmosphere of serenity prevailed. Politely declining an invitation to join the card players, Slim sidled back into the kitchen.

##################

_**The mutual admiration society…**_

"Need any help?" Slim inquired of Daisy, who already had a batch of biscuit dough on the rise.

"If you're offering, there's a mess of potatoes needs peeling, but shouldn't you be out there supervising?"

"So far, so good," Slim shrugged, reaching for a bucket. "I'm keeping a close eye on 'em, though."

Daisy brought basins and paring knives to the kitchen table. Seated cattycorner from her volunteer assistant, she continued in a low tone that couldn't be overheard by the occupants of the parlor. "I haven't detected any overt animosity… yet."

"Don't go borrowing trouble, Daisy. But if you sense any brewing, you need to let me know right away so I can put a damper on it before it gets out of hand."

"I will. I just pray it doesn't happen… that new friends are made instead."

"Me, too."

Another dozen naked potatoes went into the basin to soak before Daisy spoke again. "You must have been an extraordinary officer."

"What brings that up?" The off-the-wall comment stopped Slim in mid-peel, crinkling his brow.

"Under other circumstances it would be close to a miracle if this many disparate individuals could be thrown together and get along so nicely. I can only attribute that to strong leadership."

"Daisy, it hasn't even been twenty-four hours. You give me too much credit," Slim snorted. "True, everyone was cooperative last night—they pretty much didn't have a choice if they wanted to shelter under our roof. But if you ask me, the main reason they're all on their best behavior _now_ is _YOU_."

"Whatever do you mean? I'm just an old woman."

"It's what you represent… what they _see—_a mature _lady_ of refinement and sincerity, who relates to them on a level they can understand… as a surrogate mother or grandmother, if you will. _You_ are the temperate influence in this house of men. Whether they realize it or not, they want your approval. They don't want to disappoint you."

Daisy was silent for a few moments. "My goodness. That's quite… er… deep. I hadn't realized… I'm honored you think so highly of me."

"I didn't have to dig _too_ deep for that," Slim grinned. "Because that's how _we_ feel—me, Jess, Mike. And if any of the others were to stick around long enough they'd come to love you as we do."

"Oh Slim, stop! You're going to make me cry." Daisy stood up then, fishing in an apron pocket for her ever-present big white hanky to dab at her eyes.

"New house rule," Slim grinned. "No crying until we're done here."

"I have to roll out the biscuits. You keep on peeling. I'll be needing the rest of those for supper."

"All of these?" Slim made an exaggerated face of dismay at the second bucket.

"I'm afraid soups and stews are the only practical way of feeding this many men in the foreseeable future. So, yes, all of them."

Slim rolled his eyes and reached for another spud._ Why do I get the feeling I've just been sandbagged?_

##################

_**Slim ponders their predicament…**_

With his back to the side yard door and facing the parlor through the archway, Slim had a comprehensive view of most of the guests. He wasn't so much concerned about what _might_ happen during the weather emergency as what _could_ happen once it was over and the road cleared for travel. At the moment they all seemed to be abiding by the unwritten rules of hospitality, but once out from under such constraint… _Take your own advice and don't borrow trouble. You don't have a dog in any of their fights and their behavior elsewhere isn't your concern._

At intervals gamers detached themselves to attend to nature calls, passing in front of Slim on their way to and from the washroom. He pondered on the fact that, aside from Jess and maybe Tom, each had a backstory about which he knew nothing. A natural-born raconteur, Tom had related most of his when they'd first met. Everybody in town knew of Johnny Mac's plight, but the first decade of his life was a blank slate. Mike was another boy whose origin was likely to remain a mystery—nothing remained of the burned-out shell of his parents' wagon that could positively identify his family and no one had ever come forward looking for him. As for Jess… Slim had long ago accepted that he'd likely already heard everything he was ever going to hear about life-before-Laramie—although every now and again his partner dropped a nugget of personal information… usually unintentionally.

Emmett was a relative newcomer to the area, trailing shreds of history that were either factual or conjectural, depending on one's point of view. He was generally well-liked and respected. Not much was known about his personal life. Josh was another whose reputation preceded him—people knew his face but nothing of the taciturn individual behind it. Slim had met him once before, briefly, when the bounty hunter had delivered a capture to the Laramie jail while Slim was temping for the sheriff. All the others were unknown ciphers—other than whatever they might have shared with Daisy—and she and Slim hadn't got around to catching up. He found himself theorizing on the dynamics linking certain pairs.

The two scouts were obviously comrades-in-arms… but who was this mysterious Coop they kept referring to—this duplicate of Jess? What did the bounty hunter want with that skinny kid Daisy had taken in? Heath and Johnny Reb didn't appear to have any connections—either to each other or to any of the others. Which left Jess's 'old friend,' who'd been furtively maintaining a distance between himself and the man who'd come looking for him.

Scott had made no overt moves toward John, but there wasn't any doubt he was just biding his time. At long last it was John's turn to head for the facility, to be followed seconds later by Scott. They were back there somewhat longer than necessary and both wore storm-clouded expressions when they returned. Pretty obvious they'd been exchanging harsh words but, as long as it didn't escalate to an exchange of fists, it wasn't any of Slim's business.

Something about that Eastern gentleman bothered Slim… and it wasn't his Boston accent, which Slim had readily identified. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to will recognition into the nebulous images floating in mist-obscured memory—a black slouch hat with gold braid and cavalry insignia… yellow shoulder boards with lieutenant's bars on a dark blue jacket. Yes, he was certain he'd seen that face before… a long time ago in a faraway place.

"Slim, you okay?" Emmett had shambled in to get a coffee refill.

"Huh? What? Oh, sorry… I was just trying to remember something."

"About that Mex kid? You know he's a gunfighter, doncha?"

"No… I mean, _yes_… I know about him. It's the other one…"

"What's up with those two? You got any idea? Mort's gonna be pissed if I come back with two dead bodies."

"Two?"

"Well… he's shoots the tenderfoot, I'll have to shoot him, won't I?"

Slim was annoyed. "Look, Emmett. I can't begin to imagine what they have in common, but I wouldn't be so quick to categorize that Scott fellow as a tenderfoot. I'm sure we've met before and _not_ at a church social. It'll come to me eventually."

Daisy, overhearing, moved closer to speak _sotto voce_. "There won't be any shooting. They're brothers."

"You sure about that? They don't look anything alike."

"Neither do you and Andy."

"True enough."


	18. Chapter 18

_Chapter 18:_** MANY HANDS MAKE LIGHT WORK**

**"**_**No one is useless in this world who lightens  
the burdens of another."**_** • **_Charles Dickens_

_**All hands on deck…**_

Dinner was served somewhat later than usual but everyone agreed it was worth the wait—a savory oyster chowder with potatoes and onions and—for color—sweet corn with red and green bell peppers that Daisy had put up the preceding autumn. Flaky cathead biscuits soaked up the rich cream-based liquid.

As the last empty bowl was returned to the kitchen, Jess called for attention. "We got about four hours 'til evening chores… John, Josh and Emmett—you'll be with me."

The nominees nodded their acceptance.

"I'm gonna catch me a nap in the back bedroom where it's quiet, let some of that chowder settle. I suggest y'all do the same."

After the four had left the parlor, Slim took Daisy's elbow and gently but firmly escorted her from the kitchen. "Time for a sitdown."

"But I'm not tired," she protested. "There's cleanup to do and I really should get started on supper."

"I'll take care of that. I want you to put your feet up for just a little while," he cajoled. "Can you do that for me… please?"

Reinstalled in her rocker, Daisy chuckled at the thought she was getting far more leisure time with fourteen males in the house, counting Mike, than she normally did with only three. As much as she hated to admit it, these days her body did require more frequent and lengthier rest breaks. Not that these intervals were idle and non-productive… gracious no! Rocker time was when she caught up on mending and knitting, her current project being socks—not the dull grays and browns recycled from old holey sweaters but new skeins in vibrant colors now available at Albrecht's General Store, where she'd bartered Jutta Albrecht jars of her secret-recipe sweet cinnamon pickles for first-quality merino wool.

From her sewing basket Daisy extracted a sock-in-progress and set to work while the gamers picked up where they'd left off, conversing softly among themselves._ All in all, not a bad way to spend an afternoon. Things could be worse._

##################

_**Projects and presents…**_

Two projects needed immediate attention—kitchen cleanup and firewood replenishment. With four stoves and a fireplace needing constant feeding, wood was dwindling at an alarming rate.

In his eagerness to prove he could be just as useful as any of the grownups, Mike was first to answer Slim's appeal for kitchen skivvies.

"I can do it! I can do it!"

About to dismiss the offer, Slim was cut off by Daisy, who shot him a warning glance. "That would be so sweet of you, dear… and I know Barney and Johnny Mac will be happy to help," she added serenely.

The others weren't so sure about that but couldn't very well refuse, not after that splendid feed they had both done their level best to help consume earlier.

Daisy provided further incentive, having noted the deplorable condition of the older boys' socks. "If you're going to be standing on that cold kitchen floor, you're going to need better footwear. I have just the thing."

From the depths of her 'finished' basket Daisy produced two pairs of thick woolen slipper socks with double-layered footbeds and soft leather soles. Shortly after her arrival, she'd inquired in passing what the natives employed as footwear. Jess had brought her a pair of lightweight doeskin summer moccasins, acquired from the wife of a half-Cheyenne friend, Cory Lake. They were so comfortable she had worn moccasins as house slippers ever since, replacing as needed. Later, Daisy had experimented with the fur-lined, high-topped buckskin winter version, substituting knitted wool for the leather uppers. Her hybrid indoor footwear was so well-received by her menfolk that she added to her stockpile whenever she had time. Bartering for a tanned hide, Jess had cut out and punched enough soles to keep them shod throughout several seasons.

"Give me those rags and put these on."

Neither young man had ever experienced anything so luxurious on his feet. Each thanked Daisy profusely, agreeing that kitchen duty was the least they could do in return.

Scott, Duke and Heath abandoned their card game, standing up in unison before Slim could even get the request out of his mouth.

"How we gonna do this, boss?" Duke grinned.

"There's only enough rope left for maybe two men," Slim said, "and that's really all we need to reach the stack from the washroom door. There're three steps down from the side porch. Two of us can relay armloads up to the third standing on the porch and he can hand it over to the fourth in the doorway. We can dump it on the floor inside and distribute it later. That way we'll conserve energy and get it moved inside faster."

The other three concurred as they struggled into boots and jackets. As they wouldn't be outside as long as the barn team, they didn't need to put on as many layers.

"Don't worry, Daisy… we'll clean up our own mess," Slim called back as they marched toward the washroom.

##################

_**Unmanly contributions…**_

Unable to contribute to the communal efforts requiring physical exertion, the trio of walking wounded were left feeling guilty in the emptied parlor. Tom held a whispered conference with Johnny and Randy before approaching Daisy. He nodded at the yarn heaped in a basket by her chair.

"Miz Daisy, we may not be able to help with chores but there's other things we _can_ do to help you."

"Oh? What might that be?"

"We were just talkin' about how, when all three of us were little shavers, we helped our womenfolk wind hanks into balls. You sure got a lot of yarn and it'd save you a whole lot of time if you let us do that for you. Johnny can do the holdin'—even with his bum hand—and Randy can do the windin'."

"And what will _you_ be doing?" Daisy teased. "Supervising?"

"My granny taught me how to darn socks and sew on buttons, so if you wanna share some of that mendin'…"

"Now there's an offer I can't refuse!" Daisy dimpled prettily as the three settled themselves nearby.

The kitchen crew had completed their assignment and joined the sewing circle by the time the wood fetchers began straggling out of the hallway with armloads of kindling. If Slim or any member of his team found anything amusing in the tableau that greeted him, he was wise enough to keep it to himself. The firewood stashes were filled to capacity except for the bedroom where the other four men were resting. The wood handlers took care to clean up as promised before taking a coffee break themselves at the kitchen table.

Finally the last of the new wool was transformed into balls and Daisy declared a moratorium from any further sewing- or knitting-related activities, standing up and stretching. "I'm going to start supper now." Refusing all offers of assistance, she shooed everyone out of the kitchen.

The next few hours passed quietly as the men resumed their pre-supper activities. Slim got up from time to time to check the weather.

"I've been looking out the window but I can't see anything," Daisy commented. "Not even the barn."

"Can't really tell if the worst is over," Slim said. "The snow and wind seem to have slacked off but we've still got whiteout conditions. I should probably wake the men."

"It's only three o'clock," Daisy said. "Isn't it a little early?"

"Yeah, but it'll take 'em a while to get suited up. I want 'em done and back in the house before full dark."

##################

_**Team Two exits…**_

One by one the bedroom contingent emerged, wending their not-quite-awake ways to the washroom. Daisy had fresh coffee on hand when they were dressed and prepared to face the elements, reasoning that being warmed from the inside out would be a logical preventive measure. Roped together they resembled a string of shaggy pit ponies as they shuffled outside. Slim stepped out onto the porch briefly to ensure the anchor end of the lifeline was firmly secured to a roof support. Not to be caught short a second time, Daisy directed that mops, buckets and towels be staged near the door.

Quiet returned to the parlor. Corned beef and cabbage simmered on the stove along with boiled potatoes and Daisy's anxiety level as time passed. She repeatedly consulted her old faithful nurse's watch, pinned to her apron at her bosom. When Slim came in and leaned over the sink to peer out the side window, she grasped at his sleeve.

"It's been two hours. They should've been done by now. Something must've happened."

"Someone would've come back in to let us know if anything's wrong."

"But it's been _two hours_…"

"Yes, Daisy. So you said. I did ask Jess to try and get hay and water out to the pasture if possible, since we didn't do it this morning. And they may have to do a little shoveling to get to Mike's pets. All these things take time."

Daisy stifled a moan of frustration as Slim carefully peeled her fingers off his arm. "Tell you what… if they're not back within the hour, I'll go after 'em myself."

"But what if…"

"Daisy, _please!"_ He turned up his nose and sniffed. "You got something in the oven?"

"_Eeeek!_ My cornbread!"

##################

_**Team Two reports…**_

Silently congratulating himself on successfully diverting Daisy's attention—for the short term, anyway—Slim returned to the parlor just as multiple boot stomps on the porch steps advertised the return of the second expeditionary force. Daisy diplomatically retreated to her bedroom while the barn team changed into dry clothes. Slim hovered around Jess, anxious to know if their tardiness in getting back was due to bad news of some sort.

"What's your take on conditions, now you've been out in it?" Slim asked. The rest of the men gathered close to hear the report.

"Drifts're too deep to even _think_ about ridin' out anywhere," Jess said.

"Any sign it's slackin' off?"

"Nope.

"You were out there a long time. We were getting worried. Stock all okay?"

"Far's we could tell. None down we could see."

"Any sign of the coach horses, or the mules?"

Jess shook his head. "Nope. Must be bunched up under the firs in the far northwest corner where the wind can't get at 'em. They'll be all right. We shoveled out to the pasture fence an' barrowed some hay out there, just in case."

"Oh… good."

"Took awhile to get to the ice house, but we brought out some meat like you asked. Don't know what it is. Just grabbed whatever we could reach first."

"Daisy'll be happy, then."

Before knocking on the door to let Daisy know she could re-enter the parlor, Slim had a quick look around to ensure housekeeping standards had been met: floor mopped, wet gear removed to the washroom, and the men decently reattired.


	19. Chapter 19

_Chapter 19:_** A WYOMING GENTLEMEN'S CLUB**

**"**_**Wyoming… the land where snow falls horizontally." • **__Unattributed_

_**An enchanted evening…**_

Replete with corned beef and cabbage, boiled potatoes, green beans, cornbread and blackberry cobbler, the men sorted themselves for the remainder of the evening. After drawing straws for a kitchen clean-up crew, the rest resumed playing cards and board games, or just reading or conversing quietly. Not in a convivial mood, Jess claimed one of the fireplace rockers where his stockinged feet shared the ottoman with Daisy's. Quietly knitting in the facing rocker, she, too, seemed all talked out.

Jess allowed himself to relax into the cushions, trying to enjoy—for the first time that day—the mental respite as well as the physical one. Prior to lighting at the Sherman ranch, his life had alternated between a solitary existence and operating as a cipher within a greater whole— be it as a hired hand in a ranch crew, a dispensable nonentity in wartime or a gang member on the shady side of the law. He was no longer used to sharing such close quarters with men he didn't know and had no reason to trust. Granted, everyone seemed to be on his best behavior… and this was an extraordinary circumstance which wouldn't continue more than two or three more days.

Earlier that evening, while Daisy was down the hall and out of earshot, Scott had remarked in passing that the whole scenario put him in mind of a gentlemen's club back in Boston… and then had to explain to Jess what constituted one. "It's sort of like a combination private saloon and hotel, where wealthy businessmen go to have leisurely meals away from their wives and families. Afterwards they socialize, wheel and deal, smoke and drink, talk about interests they hold in common. That sort of thing."

"Well hell, we got them places here," Jess had laughed, "only we call 'em whorehouses an' they got sportin' gals. They rent rooms by the hour an' don't serve food."

Scott had arched an eyebrow and murmured it wasn't quite the same thing. "A gentleman's club is expensive and exclusive. Member applications have to be approved by a board. There're usually overnight accommodations for those who require them. Women aren't allowed and the servants are all male."

"Don't sound like much fun t'me."

##################

_**The unintended eavesdropper…**_

Jess' eyes roamed the room above the book he was pretending to read. It was difficult to isolate any particular conversation among the hum of low-pitched voices, but he was able to catch snatches if he concentrated.

Out of sight around the corner at the kitchen table, Duke was regaling Slim and Heath with wagon train stories. Sprawled on the sofa at the far back of the room, John was spinning some tall tale to the amusement of the kids—Barney, Johnny Mac and Mike. Emmett and Johnny Reb had set up the checkerboard between them on the fainting couch. At the parlor table, Scott, Josh, Tom and Randy were marveling over some newly introduced topic of mutual interest, having abandoned their poker game to do so. As Jess zeroed in on their conversation, his heart crept up to his throat when he realized what they were talking about. Apparently the interest they held in common was that each had a female relation attending the same medical school back East.

"If that don't beat all!" Tom slapped his knee. "Whaddya s'pose the odds are? My little sister Thea had her head set on medical school but there weren't any in Vermont, where we're from, so she hadda go to Pennsylvania. She'll get a hoot outta this when I next write to her."

"Josie always said she wanted to be a doctor and our folks supported her," Josh intoned—the longest sentence he'd uttered since his arrival. "I guess they believed that made up for my shortcomings."

Scott was shaking his head, his expression incredulous. "We didn't take Teresa seriously until the day she got on the train and left us. She's our father's ward but we think of her as a sister."

Randy shrugged. "Cousin Lucy left us a note when she run off. Said she was gonna be one a them Catholic nuns. Don't know how that got turned 'round inta bein' a doctor but it's fine by me. She'll be the first one in our family to amount to anythin'."

"Did you hear about that camping trip they went on last summer?" Tom queried.

"My mother mentioned it in a letter," Josh said. "It was around here somewhere, as I recall."

"Hard to believe some of the whoppers Teresa's told us," Scott nodded.

"That so? Josie claimed it was boring and nothing of interest happened," Josh grinned.

"Not what I heard!" Tom was laughing. "Thea wrote me they got to practice their doctorin' skills on some fellas that had some bad luck out there in the wilderness."

_Doctorin' skills ain't all what got practiced,_ Jess was thinking, hoping his face wasn't giving away his reflections. He and Andy had made a pact to never, ever reveal _everything_ that happened on that ill-fated fishing trip in the Medicine Bow Mountains. Fishing had been the least of their experiences after encountering that group of female undergraduates on a field expedition—future physicians under the leadership of one Doctor Ellie Jo Burns-Wainwright. The professor had introduced Jess to the joys of no-strings-attached free love and Andy had been initiated into one of the more pleasurable aspects of manhood by one of the young students. Slim would have blown a gasket if he'd known… _Please please please don't let my name or Andy's come up!_

As Tom had already commented, what were the odds that these four men—strangers to one another—should be gathered here together and discovering their female relations attended the same university? Or that Duke and Barney, journeying separately, should meet up here on the same night? Or that Scott would finally catch up with his errant brother right here in this house, after chasing him for over a thousand miles? Why were any of them here? Was it random chance… or predestination? Jess didn't, as a rule, dwell much on mysteries of the universe, being more preoccupied with tangible problems… such as creating a diversion before any explosive beans were spilled at the parlor table.

Daisy beat him to it.

##################

_**A musical interlude…**_

"Randy… if you're done there, perhaps you could play something for us?"

"Uh… yes ma'am… if you want. Be glad to."

"I do want. It's been such a long time since I've heard music."

"Anything special you wanna hear?"

"Do you have any Stephen Foster melodies in your repertoire?"

"Huh? I mean… ma'am?"

"I imagine most of us are familiar with Mister Foster's ballads… enough to sing along."

"I know a couple… like 'Swannee River'."

"That'll do for a start."

Randy led off in a halting but pleasing tenor and was soon joined by Slim, with Daisy's mezzo adding a grace note. One by one others lent their voices and suggestions. They ran through all of Foster's compositions Randy knew to play.

"Pity we don't have any other musicians," Daisy said. "Or do we? Slim… I've been told you play harmonica. How about a demonstration?"

"Aw Daisy… it's been a while… and all I know are cowboy songs."

"Nothing wrong with that… and they'll be new to me."

Clapping hands and wolf whistles persuaded Slim to retrieve his instrument from a desk drawer. His rendition of 'Red River Valley' inspired those who knew the words to sing along. 'Chisholm Trail' and 'Git Along, Little Dogies' proved popular, too.

"Isn't this fun?" Daisy beamed. "Come on, boys. I'll bet there's more hidden talent in this room… don't be shy!"

John reluctantly sidled forward, pointing at Randy's guitar. "I can play… a little… mostly _rancheras_—Mexican folk music, for dancing. Don't know the English words." After playing several lyrical tunes that had his audience clapping in time and tapping their feet, John yielded the guitar back to its owner.

"If only we had a pianist," Daisy sighed. "I used to play, when I was a girl… but I'm sure I've forgotten how."

"You never forget." The simple statement caught everyone by surprise… because of who made it. The bounty hunter nodded toward the old upright piano in the nook at the back of the kitchen. "That thing in tune?"

"Far as I know," Slim said. "My brother plays a little when he's home on school break. Why? Do you?"

"My mother taught me some, comin' up," Josh admitted with a wry grin. "Mind if I…?"

"Help yourself."

Despite a few discordant notes as the rusty pianist warmed up, Chopin's haunting nocturnes soon had the listeners enthralled. Most of them had never been exposed to classical music and had no idea what they were hearing. They were again caught offguard when Josh abruptly segued into an uptempo medley of 'Blue Tail Fly', 'Sweet Betsy From Pike' and 'Old Dan Tucker'.

"Your mother taught you those as well?" Daisy inquired.

"Not hardly," the unlikely piano man replied. "For a while, before taking up collecting reward money, I collected tips in a beer mug on top of a saloon piano. Bounty hunting pays better." Josh allowed his steely gaze to sweep across his audience. "But any word of this leaves this room, I'll hunt ya down an' kill ya, y'hear?"

The evening concluded with games being put away, orderly visits to the washroom and a veritable contagion of yawns. By ten o'clock beds and bedrolls were occupied. The chatelaine of the House of Sherman blew out the candle on her nightstand, satisfied that the day had gone as well as it possibly could. Everyone was getting along so nicely, it seemed that the trouble Slim had worried about wasn't going to materialize.


	20. Chapter 20

_Chapter 20:_** BIG TROUBLE IN A LITTLE HOUSE**

**"**_**The art of medicine consists in amusing the patient  
while nature effects the cure."**_** • **_Voltaire_

_**MONDAY, APRIL 6th… "Bless you!"…**_

The day had pretty much been a repeat of the previous day. Both morning and afternoon teams had gone out and come back with no news. The atmosphere inside the ranchhouse was becoming decidedly gamey, despite everyone's best efforts at personal hygiene. Damp clothing hung everywhere. Board games and cards were becoming tiresome. Carefully maintained civility prevailed though actual cheer was in short supply. Desperate for entertainment, men who rarely made time in their adult lives to read for pleasure found themselves rediscovering the joy of literature. Fortunately, the Sherman library offered something for everyone… from leather-bound classics for the better educated among them to Andy's left-behind collection of Beadle's dime novels, which enthralled the culturally-challenged. This particular evening was exceptionally quiet—no one felt like talking, everyone was reading.

When trouble crept in, it wasn't due to an angry word, a veiled threat or the snick of a hammer… it manifested itself as a barely audible sniffle to which no one paid attention—except Daisy. Raising her head sharply from her sock mending, she slowly perused the room with the acuity of a soaring hawk sighting in on a field mouse. However, the origin of the offensive inhalation remained elusive. A few minutes later she heard it again… the unmistakable prelude to a runny nose. Still, no one claimed ownership.

When an explosive sneeze echoed ominously throughout the room, Mike's small voice piped up. "Bless you!" He was looking at Johnny Mac when he said it… and so was everyone else.

" 'Scuse me," the teenager muttered with a stricken expression. "Guess I musta caught a chill the other evening when…."_ Ah… ah… ah… AH CHOO!_

Shooting a prayer aloft in the full knowledge of its futility, Daisy put down her sewing and mentally prepared herself to do battle with the dreaded winter head cold… multiplied by fourteen. Fifteen if she were unlucky enough to come down with it herself. Contrary to what most people believed—that one came down with a cold by _being_ cold—Daisy understood, from her hospital experience, that one _caught_ a cold simply by being in close proximity to someone who already had one, just as with any other contagious affliction.

Summoned to the kitchen for an appraisal, Johnny Mac admitted that his co-prisoners in Prentiss' shed had already been manifesting signs of illness at the time he'd made his escape. Yes, they'd been sick on other occasions but the old man had never provided any aid or comfort, had in fact punished them as if they were malingering in order to get out of work. Johnny Mac himself had felt it coming on yesterday but had tried to hide the symptoms.

"But why? Why didn't you come to me right away?" Daisy scolded, placing her palm on the boy's forehead—as if his flushed face, red nose and rheumy eyes weren't already advertising the onset.

"Afraid I'd get a whipping… or get locked up somewhere…" Johnny Mac paused to sneeze.

Daisy whipped out a handkerchief. "Oh, you're going somewhere all right. Straight to bed… after you've cleaned your teeth and washed your face. I'll bring you some hot tea with medicine to help you sleep. Go now."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am." The boy shuffled off to the washroom as Slim came around the corner.

"I heard." Apprehension plastered his face. "Think it's just a head cold… not influenza?" He already had the beginnings of a scratchy throat but was hesitant about sharing that unwelcome news with the resident dispenser of foul-tasting elixers. _Why do mothers adhere to the principle that the worse a medicine tastes the better it is for you? Daisy might be old but she's still a mother at heart._

"Probably, so don't go borrowing trouble," Daisy retorted. "In any case it's too late to isolate him even if we had a place. Packed together as we are, likely everyone else will be down with it shortly."

Slim moaned. "I don't need this on top of everything else."

"There's nothing you or I can do about it."

However, foreseeing gallons of medicated tea and cauldrons of chicken soup in her near future, Daisy's grim and purposeful visage advertised that she was indeed preparing to 'do something about it'.

Slim groaned. "What do you need?"

"More firewood—quite a bit, I'm afraid. And my box brought up from downstairs." This was in reference to her pharmacopoeia of dried herbs stored in a wooden chest in the cool, dry environment of the root cellar. She went on to name other requirements: poultry and beef from the icehouse and—from the locker in the barn—liniment too noxious to keep in the house.

With pursed lips Daisy added that a couple bottles of whiskey wouldn't go amiss. Her long-departed predecessor, Jonesy, had always kept—also in the barn, hidden in an unused grain barrel—an emergency supply of 'medicinal purposes only' hootch. Slim had continued the barn tradition, ostensibly to preclude offense to delicate sensibilities by keeping it in the house. After all, ladies of genteel quality generally frowned upon the presence of such beverages. Daisy knew it was there, of course, but pretended she didn't. Slim knew she knew but pretended he didn't. Oddly enough, this prohibition didn't apply to her own stock of assorted homemade brandies in the cellar, the alcohol content of which sometimes rivaled anything on offer down at McGuire's saloon.

##################

_**TUESDAY, APRIL 7**__**th**__**… Contagion runs amok…**_

After Johnny Mac, the next to go down were Slim and John, followed shortly by Tom, Duke and Emmett. Under Daisy's captaincy, 'volunteers' were appointed and duties assigned. Best-read next to Scott and Slim, Johnny Reb—though lacking a university education—was supplied with _Gunn's Home Book of Health _and Daisy's own hand-written compendium of home remedies. Mike was parked next to him with pre-sharpened pencils, sheets of ruled paper and another sheet scissored into narrow strips.

The small Texan glanced up at Daisy with an apologetic smile, holding up his splinted and bandaged paw. "What is it you wish me to do, ma'am? I… um…can't write."

"Page through these and find the receipts for common cold or respiratory ailment. Mark the location with a paper strip. Have Mike write down the page number, ingredients and measures. Spell them out for him as you go and make sure he's written them properly and legibly."

"What if a certain ingredient turns up in more than one receipt… say, one half-cup for one and two tablespoons for the next?"

"Have him write each quantity separately. Afterwards you can help him add up the fractions and other measurements. That will serve as his arithmetic, spelling and penmanship homework for the day."

"Awwww… Aunt Daisy!" the youngster whined.

The rebel tucked his head to hide his grin. This woman was a multi-tasker of the first order—not unlike his own mother who'd been merciless when it came to enforcing her childrens' daily studies. _Well, Ma… you always wanted me to be a school teacher._

The list of ingredients blossomed as Johnny Reb and Mike doggedly stuck to their mission… onions, garlic, cinnamon, ginger root, bloodroot, cayenne pepper, thyme, pennyroyal, elderflower, basswood flowers, horehound, catnip, vinegar, licorice root, honey, bee balm, skunk oil, goose grease, bear grease, turpentine, mint, purple coneflower, snakeroot, willow bark, yarrow, pine needles, sagebrush, hot peppers… and much, much more.

At long last they got to the ends of both books. Mike reviewed with horror the appalling strings of future arithmetic problems. Johnny Reb felt decidedly bilious at some of the concoctions sick people were forced to swallow or have smeared on them. _Ma undoubtedly used some of these treatments on me as a lad but fortunately I was too young to know what went into them or I would've run away from home._ As the head mistress appeared to have no other immediate uses for him or the kid, he decided they might as well launch into weights and measures lessons.

##################

_**Daisy Cooper, Ward Matron…**_

While the two scribes pored over their assignment, Daisy busied herself preparing sickroom soups and broths. Pots of chicken and beef simmered on the back burners. Other vessels of boiling water awaited the infusion of medicinal herbs. Meals still had to be produced for the as-yet unafflicted. A beef joint with quartered potatoes was in the oven, along with a pan of cornbread. In the warming ovens, previously canned green beans and tomatoes compensated for the lack of fresh produce. The kitchen was sweltering.

Upon presentation by Johnny Reb of the annotated books and completed list, Daisy extracted jars and linen sacks from the chest, ticking off what was available and striking through what wasn't. A quick comparison narrowed down the marked receipts to only those for which all necessary ingredients or acceptable substitutions were present. She then summoned her next assistant.

"I really don't know anything about this, ma'am." Scott protested. "What if I make a mistake?"

Daisy harrumphed. "What's your alma mater, young man?"

"I… er… graduated from Harvard."

"I assume you must have taken a chemistry course at some point."

"Well, yes ma'am… but…"

"Did they teach you how gunpowder is made?"

"Yes ma'am… but…"

"Then surely you know your way around a mortar and pestle. Just follow the directions and nothing will explode." Daisy pointed to the first bookmarked page in her personal compilation of fail-safe remedies. As it turned out, most of the treatments contained in _Gunn's_ had called for components not on hand—therefore useless.

Yielding to the diminutive _force majeure_ of the household, Scott accepted his new role of apothecary's apprentice and started reading. Soon he was pounding leaves and roots and spooning powder onto the balance scale on the sideboard. If there were a silver lining to this state of affairs, it was that his rancorous little brother was effectively rendered _hors de combat_ for the duration. In their relatively brief association, Scott had observed his sibling's ability to bounce back from physical adversities from beatings to bullets, but he couldn't recall when John had _ever_ suffered anything as dismally embarrassing as a common, garden-variety head cold. He knew he should be feeling guilty at finding humor in this situation… but he wasn't. _Our father's never going to believe this story._

##################

_**WEDNESDAY, APRIL 8**__**th**__**… From bad to worse…**_

Jess was in a quandary. Beside himself, only three other warm, uninjured, unafflicted bodies—Heath, Josh and Scott—remained to attend to both morning and evening expeditions. In stout macho fashion, Slim attempted to drag himself from his sickbed, arguing that a mere head cold wasn't an excuse to slack off from chores. Daisy not only begged to _disagree_—she outright threatened him. "Don't even think about setting foot outdoors or I'll drug you senseless."

_She can and will do it, too…_ Slim thought. _My head's so clogged up I can't smell or taste or anything. She could put laudanum in my coffee or soup and I'd never know it. _To the room at large he morosely wondered, "How can so much snot run from a nose you can't even breathe through?" Six other long faces with dripping red proboscises nodded in commiseration.

Pressed into laundry detail, Randy and Barney soon had a production line organized in the washroom. Soiled handkerchiefs and bandannas were deposited in the galvanized sink with boiling water and lye soap, then vigorously agitated with a long-handed wooden paddle. The items were then fed through the cast-iron wringer clamped to the side of the sink into a barrel of cold water for rinsing. Once again passed through the wringer, clothing and hankies were sent out of the washroom to be pegged to the web of improvised laundry lines crisscrossing the ceiling in the parlor. The juxtaposition of so many contrasting colors and patterns reminded Daisy of childhood visits to Philadelphia, where ships plying the Delaware River displayed nautical flags and pennants of all nations. When the supply of dry hankies failed to meet the demands of so many overflowing sinuses, Daisy was forced to delve into her hoard of clean white cotton and linen bandages.

In the meantime, from the bedrooms and parlor doubling as sickrooms emanated an ongoing symphony of moaning, groaning, snuffling, honking, coughing, throat clearing and the occasional bleat of misery. In between other assignments, Heath and Jess were tasked with replenishing firewood as needed, stacking it wherever they could find room. Scott—the tallest individual still upright—was detailed to collect and distribute dry handkerchiefs and hang the next batch of damp ones. The shortest one—Josh—was appointed 'tea lady', handing around hot medicated tea to the victims. He was about to suggest they'd most likely prefer coffee but passed on that notion after a good squint at the lady of the house's expression reminded him that contradicting the head nurse or chief cook never ended well. _Ma'd rupture herself laughing if she could see me now._

##################

_**THURSDAY, APRIL 9th… From tribulation to alliances…**_

From her command post in the kitchen, Daisy continued oversight of her improvised lazaretto with consummate efficiency. By the grace of the Supreme Deity and a panoply of saints, she herself remained healthy, as did Mike. Daisy was immensely proud of her 'little man'. For one so young he was proving to be a reliable and cheerful assistant. Not for the first time Slim marveled over their good fortune in having had this capable woman come into their lives.

Of those who hadn't fallen ill, working partnerships naturally evolved…

Scott and Heath paired up after conversations uncovered a number of eerie similarities in their lives: both were latecomers to their current status as scions of notable ranching families; each chafed under the peremptory rule of a single parent; both were already grown men before the discovery of half-siblings they hadn't even known existed; each had had emotional difficulties adjusting to radical departures from their former lifestyles; and, of course, they lived relatively close to each other in California… slightly less than two hundred miles lay between their respective family empires.

Jess and Josh also formed an alliance—at first uneasy. Understandably worried about whatever misconceptions the bounty hunter might be laboring under, Jess was upfront about his past exploits. Josh seemed to accept the other's assurances that there were no outstanding warrants on him.

To their credit, teenagers Randy and Barney uncomplainingly soldiered on in the laundry—so far neither exhibiting any symptoms. They'd found solidarity in being _de facto_ orphans who'd struck out on their own at thirteen.

Barney's original intention in running away to the west was to find the biological father he'd never known—and when he succeeded, it turned out the man was a stranger with a new family and little desire to provide a home for his first-born. Barney'd been fortunate in having found his substitute family in the men of the wagon train.

Randy hadn't been entirely truthful with Daisy about his family. Although his parents were deceased, his grandparents still lived back in North Carolina… along with his older brother and an assortment of aunts, uncles and cousins. Faced with the dismal prospect of becoming just like them—dirt-poor, ignorant and incessantly feuding—the boy had decided there had to be a better life elsewhere. Unlike his new friend, he hadn't yet found his place in the world.


	21. Chapter 21

_Chapter 21:_** THE SNOW EATER**

**"**_**Better the chill blast of winter than the hot  
breath of a pursuing elephant."**__ • __Chinese proverb_

_**MONDAY, APRIL 13**__**th**__**… Shift change…**_

Conventional wisdom has it that the average head cold lasts seven days or one week… whichever comes first. Five days onward, the undead had turned a corner of sorts and were on their way to rejoining the living. Daisy kept an eagle eye on the as yet healthy adults—Jess, Scott, Heath and Josh. Experience had taught her that exhausted people were extremely susceptible to respiratory ailments… and they were rapidly nearing that point, having carried the load of twice-daily outdoor chores for almost a week. But—so far, so good—the foursome showed no signs of succumbing and, if fortune favored, they wouldn't.

Slim, Duke, John and Emmett, gummy-eyed and snuffling, staggered to the breakfast table, where Slim declared it was time his team resumed their rotations, beginning with the evening run. Though fretting they weren't sufficiently recovered, Daisy accepted that needs must. The other two patients—Tom and Johnny Mac—made their much-improved appearance at dinner.

On the downside… sounds of distress had begun emanating from the washroom where Randy and Barney continued laboring at the appalling backlog of laundry. On the upside… Daisy herself, Johnny Reb and Mike remained unafflicted—for which Daisy gave fervent thanks to the Lord. The small Texan's hand was much better. The swelling had gone down and he was able to flex his fingers, but Daisy insisted on at least another week of wrapping and splint support. He resigned himself to helping in the kitchen with whatever he could do one-handed, and assisting Mike with his homework as assigned by Daisy.

It occurred to Daisy that Johnny Mac's educational opportunities had probably been curtailed by having to leave the orphanage for the workhouse. She therefore suggested he attach himself to the study group where—surprisingly—he proved to be an eager and apt pupil. Tom volunteered to take over laundry when Daisy decreed Randy and Barney too sick to continue.

Having taken to their beds immediately after dinner, the morning chore team members were still sawing logs when the evening expedition began gearing up under Daisy's strict supervision. She inspected each of the three individually, insisting on extra layers of insulation, gloves within gloves, additional mufflers wound around heads and extra hankies stuffed into every available pocket. Though mummified to a fare-thee-well, barely able to waddle, Slim knew better than to complain about restriction of movement. Daisy didn't need to know that, once inside the barn, they'd be able to shed enough excess protection to function efficiently.

##################

_**High plains meteorology explained…**_

"Good news, fellas…" Slim announced over the evening repast of hearty split pea soup with ham and crusty sourdough rolls fresh from the oven. "The whiteout's lifted and there's a chinook riding the tail of this baby blizzard."

"You sure 'bout that?" Jess asked. Although well acquainted with the 'blue northers' of his native Texas, it wasn't until settling in Wyoming that he'd encountered that northwest phenomenon also known as a 'snow eater'. His weather sense for this region wasn't yet as finely attuned as his partner's.

"The nose knows." Having regained his olfactory and gustatory faculties, Slim tapped his proboscis with a forefinger.

"What's a sha nook?" John wanted to know, not much liking his first experience with a high plains winter storm.

"It's a warm, dry wind, flowing over the Rockies from the Pacific. What snow isn't blown away vaporizes in a matter of days… sometimes almost overnight."

"How can that be… with a snowstorm going on outside?" questioned Scott, no stranger to Massachusetts' blizzards and nor'easters—but back in Boston one had to slog through icy slush and grit-encrusted snow for weeks until it melted naturally or rain washed it away.

"It's stopped snowing," Slim said. "What you see is powder blowing in the wind."

"When can we expect this to happen?" Tom asked. Also a native New Englander—one state up from Scott—he, too, was dubious about Slim's claim of an overnight reversal in conditions.

"Can't say for sure but I'm betting on tonight."

Grins broke out in anticipation of release from captivity.

"Even if it does, that don't mean we can ride out right away," Emmett contributed lugubriously. Though Oklahoma born and raised, he'd been around the northwest long enough to have witnessed the aftereffects of a classic chinook.

Faces fell as a chorus of groans swept through the room.

"Even if the snow's all gone?" someone else asked.

Slim elucidated. "Well, it won't be… and here's why. There's nothing blocking the wind from sweeping across the Laramie basin and chasing the snow right on through town. That's why it hardly ever accumulates more than a foot deep… and a chinook can take that out overnight. We're about fifteen hundred feet higher up here so there's more snow to begin with. Plus, we're in this little valley surrounded by hills. There's nowhere for the snow to be blown _to_… so it piles up in drifts."

"How deep _is_ the snow on the road, Slim?" ever-practical Tom asked.

"Roughly two to three feet by yardstick measure."

"This wind… how warm is warm?" Scott preferred incoming information to be more defined.

Slim shrugged. "A strong chinook's been known to bump up temperatures by fifty or sixty degrees or more in just a few hours."

"Wouldn't that melt snow fairly quickly, then?" Scott queried, still not understanding. But then, neither did anyone else.

Slim sighed. "If the sun's shining, sure, it'll liquify the top layer… and the warm, dry wind can vaporize maybe the first foot or so. That'll still leave us with a foot of compacted snow on the ground. As soon as the chinook's moved on, temperatures plunge back down to normal… below freezing at night."

"I'm beginning to get the picture," Scott admitted, wrinkling his brow. "_And_ the problem. Whatever meltwater lingers on the surface will refreeze and create an ice crust over snow still on the ground."

"You got it," Slim said. "There's no way a wagon can make it to town in those conditions."

Jess spoke up. "And ain't none a y'all goin' nowhere 'til that tree's moved outta the way."

Glumness pervaded the atmosphere—they'd forgot about _that_ obstacle.

"You call that good news?" John grumbled. He'd been scheming on how and when he'd be able to sneak away from his brother.

"Sure it is," Slim grinned. "It means we won't be stuck here together until the spring thaw. The _other_ good news is that the stock in the front pasture finally came out of the woods. They were lined up at the fence waiting for more hay, every one of 'em. We counted noses."

"Oh, that's marvelous, Slim," Daisy chirped. "We were all so worried about them freezing to death. And isn't it fortunate your nose can foretell the weather? I depend on my arthritis, myself." She then clapped her hands for attention. "Don't get too comfortable. I need some busboys to clear off the tables."

Daisy was once again exiled from the kitchen as a brigade of volunteers not only did her bidding but attended to the washing up. With that out of the way, they joined the rest of the crowd in the parlor.

##################

_**Attack plans codified…**_

As reigning monarchs, Slim occupied one rocking chair and Daisy the other. The others ranked themselves in semicircles as close as they could squeeze in near the fireplace.

"Who's responsible for road maintenance?" Scott queried.

Slim produced a wry grimace. "Officially? The county and territorial governments share it, but in reality we don't have road crews as such… unless it's a major issue like a washout, landslide or bridge collapse. Pretty much it's up to whoever's inconvenienced the most to remove or repair hazards. Overland pays usage fees to help cover maintenance costs but they don't do any actual roadwork. As Commissioner of Roads I can hire workers on the county dime and put in a claim for time and materials, but it wouldn't be processed for weeks or months. Most of you will be far away by then. Looks like we're gonna have to pitch in and do the job ourselves."

Duke put up a hand. "I got lumberjackin' experience… I can help."

"Me, too," Heath chimed in. "With some crosscut saws and a strong pulling team, we can have that tree outta the way in no time."

Slim nodded. "We have only one saw that's big enough for the trunk, but Garland Bartlett down the road has several… and a team of Percherons that could pull hell off its hinges, plus a bunkhouse full of hired hands."

"How far away is his place?" someone asked.

"Five miles west of here and a half mile off the stage road… on the other side of that tree," Slim said.

Scott frowned. "If _his_ route to town is clear, why would he care?"

Slim, Jess and Daisy exchanged puzzled looks. Evidently Scott's California folks weren't accustomed to calling on neighbors for assistance. And, considering his urban upbringing, it had doubtless never been necessary to borrow horses or servants over a weather event.

"For one thing…" Slim began slowly, "…we're not the _only_ family out this way. There're others who also depend on the stage road to get to town, and they might not've had the chance to lay in enough supplies to last. We've fared as well as we have due to Daisy's foresight in keeping our larder stocked… and because I happened to be in town at the right time. The other reason is… a neighbor's still a neighbor, whether he's right next door or five miles away. We look out for one another and share whatever we can wherever there's a need."

"And the addendum to that, dear…?" Daisy added primly, cutting her eyes at him.

Slim had the grace to look slightly abashed, knowing exactly where _that_ barb was aimed. "Offering hospitality to strangers in need as well."

The roomful of 'strangers' nodded in acknowledgment of their indebtedness to _this_ home, which had exceeded all expectations of hospitality.

##################

_**Outlining the mission…**_

"The first thing we must do, as soon as possible," Scott stated briskly, "is send a rider over to this Bartlett's place, let him know what we need and when to meet us."

The man's abrupt and vaguely annoying segue into command style clicked something in Slim's mind. "Yeah, but _I'll_ go when I think it's time," he stated somewhat testily.

Scott shook his head. "Jess is shorter and lighter than you. He should be the one… on the tallest horse you've got."

Slim had to bite his tongue. Jess had always been a tad defensive about his shorter stature—an insignificant height differential amounting to a piddling three or four inches. Still, a subject best left unmentioned. On the other hand, it was a sore point with Slim that he tended to put on weight if not constantly active while Jess could chow down like a market pig and not gain an ounce—at least that _had_ been the case until Daisy had come along and started cooking for them.

Scott's observation was, of course, correct in that the lesser weight would be easier on the horse. "He's right," Slim advised his partner before the latter could retort with some stinging remark. "You can take Ranger." Ranger was Slim's long-legged remount, a good two hands taller than Jess' Traveller.

Jess nodded in acquiescence, swallowing his bile at the outsider's assumption that his opinion mattered. It was Slim's call but he would've volunteered anyway.

Scott continued, unaware that he'd said anything amiss. Leadership came naturally to him. "I'm assuming you have some sort of conveyance suitable for transporting personnel and equipment, such as a sleigh or a sledge?"

Slim had to stifle a snort. "What we'll have to do is replace the wheels on the hay wagon with runners. At best we'll be able to move six men and a limited amount of equipment… and that's with a double team."

"You don't have draft horses?" Scott seemed surprised.

"Never had need of any. We're ranchers, not farmers," Slim retorted, also not feeling a need to explain that originally the Shermans _were_ farmers, who couldn't afford to buy, much less feed, even one of those behemoth beasts. They'd used oxen.

"Let's hope your neighbor is in a generous mood," Scott concluded.

Slim turned to Jess, anxious to smooth over the unintended slight by letting Scott know that Jess was equally empowered to make decisions. "What d'you think about using the mules and a pair of coach wheelers instead of Willy and Jake?"

"Good idea. Soon's you say, we'll bring 'em into the corral an' give 'em some extra grain rations."

Slim breathed out a sigh of relief at the successful diversion. Jess would now be focused on the animals, ensuring they were in the best possible shape for travel. Intuiting he was being excluded from any further planning, Scott sensibly turned his attention back to his plate.

It suddenly came to Slim where and when he had earlier encountered the slim Bostonian—over a decade ago in a military hospital where Slim himself had been laid up with a minor injury. Another lieutenant had come into the ward to visit some of his troopers. Though they hadn't been introduced at the time, Slim had been roundly impressed by the other man's solicitous attention and kindness to each and every one of the wounded soldiers under his command. Their enthusiastic response to his presence indicated their admiration for the man. Too few leaders generated that level of loyalty and respect. Slim's estimation of the Eastern dude rose by several notches.


	22. Chapter 22

_Chapter 22:_** THE CALM AFTER THE STORM**

**"**_**After every storm the sun will smile… and the soul's  
indefeasible duty is to be of good cheer."**__ • William R. Alger_

_**TUESDAY, APRIL 14**__**th**__**… On a clear day…**_

Slim jerked awake and sat up abruptly. Something was wrong… but what? In the dim glow of the stove's dying fire, there wasn't anything to see aside from Jess' lumpy blanketed form in the adjacent bed. Nothing to hear, either… other than the muffled snoring of his partner and the other two sleepers in the bunk on the other side of the partition dividing the room. Then it came to him: it was what he _couldn't_ hear—the howling of the fierce gales that had been buffeting the ranch house for ten straight days.

Slipping out of bed and into the parlor, Slim eased out the front door onto the porch—perhaps not the wisest move as he was clad only in his union suit and his feet were bare. Diamond-bright stars spangled a clear sky, illuminating a pristine white landscape. To the west, the delicate crescent of a waning moon hung suspended over the mountains. The predicted chinook had come and gone in the early morning hours, leaving in its wake a softer, gentler—and, more importantly, warmer—wind. The beauty of it all was enthralling.

"Slim Sherman! What on earth do you think you're doing?" The hissed whisper behind him startled Slim out of his reverie. "Come inside this instant!"

Slim obediently scooted back in, quietly closing the door. "I was only out there for a minute, Daisy. Not long enough to hurt. Why are you up?" he queried, hoping to avert a scolding.

"I heard the door opening."

_Ears like a bat,_ Slim was thinking. "I apologize for disturbing you."

"You didn't. It's almost dawn and I was already awake. Since you're up, you can help me start breakfast."

"Be glad to."

##################

_**Division of labor…**_

At breakfast Slim issued a call for all able-bodied hands to assist in preparations. "With any luck and a lot of elbow grease we might get the job done in one day. It'll take most of today to convert the wagon and assemble the tools and equipment we'll need. In the meantime, there's still the regular chores to get out of the way. Jess'll ride over to the neighbors around noon. I've asked Daisy for an early supper so we can all turn in early, get a good night's rest and be ready to shove off by sunrise. Everyone okay with that plan? Any questions?"

There weren't any. Heads nodded in agreement and everyone seemed to share Slim's optimism. The camaraderie they'd obtained for over a week was nothing short of a miracle… still, he judged it couldn't last too much longer.

Tom, Randy and Barney appealed to Daisy to be allowed to join the outside party, to which they received an emphatic 'no'. Johnny Mac, however, was declared fit for manual labor. Slim was inclined to deny Mike's anguished pleas to be allowed outdoors—afraid the child's curiosity would lead him to getting underfoot and in the way—but was persuaded otherwise after a brief private conference with Daisy.

Thus, eight men and two boys trooped outside to a magnificent sunrise—the barn crisply outlined under a robin's egg sky, with lemony rays reflecting off the snowpack. Meltwater dripped from eaves. Tree branches shook themselves free of their snow burdens and overwintering birds swooped overhead, chirping merrily. The evening before, Slim had the foresight to carry back to the porch all the shovels they had. Soon the men had a brigade going, clearing paths to the outbuildings so that slush wouldn't pour over the tops of their boots. The compacted layer of unmelted snow underneath was firm enough to walk on without sinking.

Slim divvied his helpers into groups… Jess and Scott teamed up to handle milking, feeding and mucking out. With all the pastured animals conveniently gathered at the gate waiting for their hay, the pair were easily able to halter the mules and the two burliest coach horses and turn them into the corral. Duke and Heath were set to converting the hay wagon to a sled. Under Slim's direction, Josh and John began gathering all the equipment they needed to clear the road—rope, wedges, saws, axes, skidding tongs, tug chains and stepladder. Several of the axes and saws needed attention so Emmett volunteered to man the grindstone in the forge.

Slim addressed the two youngest 'helpers' with the same gravitas he applied to the adults. "You men are in charge of chickens and critters. After you collect eggs and deliver them to the house, the pen could use a good shoveling out. Make sure the water and feed pans are full. Same goes for Mike's pets. Aunt Daisy's set aside a bucket of root vegetables and greens for them, too. Also, now that the weather's cleared we're all going to start using the outhouse again. Aunt Daisy asked if you'd please check the paper and tissue supply out there."

There was one other unpleasant task to face—one that couldn't be put off and that Slim wasn't comfortable asking anyone else to do—and that was emptying the temporary 'accommodation' in the washroom. Hauling out the hand truck they used for moving heavy grain barrels, Slim manhandled it up onto the platform outside the washroom. Wheeling the reeking barrel as far from the house as he could, he began to appreciate Daisy's repeated appeals for a water closet.

##################

_**Jess heads out…**_

As the sun climbed higher in the sky and the temperature rose accordingly, the men started peeling out of their heavy jackets. By noon the snow depth on the road had reduced enough that Jess felt comfortable heading out. Before doing so, though, he carefully cleaned and dried the insides of Ranger's hooves before packing them with pine tar. John and Josh looked on with curiosity.

"What's that for?" John asked.

"Prevents snowballs. Don't wanna hafta be pickin' 'em out every five minutes."

"Oh." _That makes sense,_ John thought. He'd never before encountered deep snow, much less ridden in it, so it had never occurred to him that snowballs in horses' feet could be a problem.

Josh, on the other hand, _had_ ridden in winter storm conditions and was thinking about the times a mount had pulled up lame after slipping. _If only someone had suggested such a simple preventive measure._

Jess conferred with Slim while saddling up, reckoning it would probably take twice as long to reach Bartlett's place as it normally would at a steady jog on a dry surface.

"No sense you trying to make it back tonight, Jess… it'll be dark by then. Tell Bartlett we'll meet him and whatever men he can spare tomorrow, soon as it's full daylight."

"Will do. Anything else?"

"There's this for Miz Bartlett…" Slim extracted a folded up paper from a vest pocket and handed it over. "It's a list of supplies we're running short of… especially eggs and sugar. Daisy said to tell Marilyn if they don't have enough to share, don't worry about it. She'll make do. Hopefully it'll just be another day, maybe two… and we can start shifting guests to town."

"Okay." With that, Jess mounted up and left the confines of the barn. Ranger didn't seem fazed about being asked to travel in snow, merely lifting his feet higher than usual.

"Stay safe," Slim called after his retreating partner before returning to the saw he'd been oiling.

##################

_**Jess returns…**_

"Lands sake! Have you ever seen such capricious weather?" Daisy stood on the front porch, hands on hips and shaking her head in wonderment. "A week ago one would have thought we were at the North Pole and today…" She didn't waste a moment of the golden opportunity to air out the house and do laundry. By midafternoon, everything but what the men actually had on their backs had been boiled, rinsed and pegged outside in the blustery warm wind. Not one guest would be departing the premises with soiled clothing in his valise or saddlebags if she had anything to say about it—and she did when they'd resisted. By the time the last item went on the line, the first ones were already dry. With Slim's assignments mostly completed, anyone not otherwise engaged was conscripted to folding and stacking laundry on the parlor table, where ownership could later be claimed.

Slim interrupted his harness mending when Jess returned a few hours later. "Back so soon? Wasn't expecting you until tomorrow morning."

"When I got to the tree, Bartlett an' a couple a his hands was already there, comin' to see how we made out. Told 'em who all was here an' how we'd got along okay. Gave 'im Daisy's note."

"How're things at their place?"

"Fine. No trouble a'tall. Bartlett says he'll meet us out there, first light. Figures we'll be done long before nightfall."

"That's the best news I've had all day. Any other traffic or news coming up from town?"

"Not yet."

By suppertime the saddle horses were reinstalled in the barn. The sled team had happily munched the extra ration of grain liberally laced with molasses. The improvised sled was loaded and ready to go. Conversation at the table centered on who would comprise the logging crew and who would stay behind for morning chores. Slim and Jess argued over who had the most recent experience driving a four-up, in the end deciding Slim would take outbound and Jess homebound. As _everyone_ had volunteered, straws were drawn to select the four who would ride in the cargo bed. Heath, Emmett, Duke and Josh won those honors. Scott and John drew barn chores.


	23. Chapter 23

_Chapter 23:_** TREK OF THE LUMBERJACKS**

**"**_**I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay."**_** • **_Monty Python_

_**WEDNESDAY, APRIL 15th…**_

Daisy had breakfast well underway before daybreak. While the trekkers tucked in, she packed her largest basket with ham and cheese biscuits wrapped in waxed paper and another with coffee makings and tin cups. Enough dry wood had been loaded onto the wagon to start a sizeable campfire. The mules and coach horses were brought into the barn and subjected to the anti-snowball treatment. The sun peeped over the mountains as the men clambered aboard the cumbersome equipage. It took a few minutes for the team to synchronize and find their rhythm before the improvised sledge slowly began moving forward with a series of short, sharp jerks.

Prior to setting out, Jess had sought a private word with Slim. "When we get there, you be the boss, okay? I'll just be one a the crew."

"Why? Everyone knows you're a full partner now."

"Knowin' an' acceptin' ain't the same thing, Slim."

Slim bristled. "Has Bartlett ever indicated disrespect for your status here?"

"No. Not lately, anyways. But some a his hands still ain't comfortable with me bein' around. They damned sure don't like takin' orders from me. Had some trouble on that last round-up… when you wasn't around."

"You're just now telling me this?" Slim growled. "I'll talk to Bartlett… bust some heads if I have to."

"No, Slim. Leave it be. Wasn't just _his_ men… an' you don't need to be whuppin' anyone on my account. I can take care a myself."

"That's not the point, Jess."

"Trust me… it'll sit better with these boys if they see you makin' me part owner didn't give me a swelled head… an' it'll be less confusin' if only one of us is givin' orders."

"Well… if that's the way you want it…"

"That's the way I want it."

##################

_**Brothers…**_

Watching as the sledge rounded the bend in the road and disappeared from sight, John sighed deeply. It wasn't being left behind to deal with mundane barn chores that had him down in the mouth, but the prospect of being stuck with his brother for what promised to be a _very_ long day. Scott and their father had rarely skimped on lectures and reprimands when it came to the younger brother's failings… and Scott had had weeks to hone his to a rapier point. John steeled himself to have his ears pounded by sermons on responsibility and filial duty.

Entering the barn, the brothers turned horses into the corral before herding out to the back pasture the bull, the orphan calves and the cow, which Slim had milked earlier. Neither spoke as, manning pitchforks, they worked opposite sides of the aisle. In silence they alternated wheeling the loaded barrow outside to dump it. John climbed the ladder to the loft and began heaving down armloads of fresh bedding straw, which Scott raked into the stalls. The only word Scott uttered was 'enough', at which John descended the ladder and began distributing hay to the racks while Scott filled feed troughs from the grain bins at the back wall. They then took turns carrying pails of water from the corral trough until each stall's bucket was replenished. Scott still wasn't saying anything and John's anxiety level inched upwards.

Barn chores accomplished, Scott made as if to return to the house. John couldn't take it anymore. "Scott… wait…"

The other's face, as he halted and rotated in place, was unreadable. "Yes?" His tone was equally expressionless.

John felt his resolve crumbling. "I… you… didn't come all this way just to _not_ talk to me…" he fumbled.

"Indeed not."

"Did Murdoch… Pa… did he send you after me?"

"He did not. I came of my own volition."

"Then why ain't you sayin' anything?"

Planting his feet apart and folding his arms, Scott regarded his little brother critically. "A week ago I tried to initiate a dialogue. All I wanted to hear from you was your reason for leaving. I just wanted to know… for my own peace of mind. You told me it was none of my business. I wasn't prepared to argue with you then… or now. I've decided you're right. You're a grown man, Johnny. Free to do whatever's right for you. I'm going home… because that's what right for me."

A very long minute went by before the younger brother caved, looking away and mumbling. "Had a reason. A good one."

"Well, if you're ready to share, I'm listening."

##################

_**At the tree removal staging area…**_

Already on site when the Sherman crew arrived, Bartlett's bunch were industriously sawing and whacking away at lower limbs in order to establish a conduit through which men could pass back and forth. Garland Bartlett himself greeted his neighbors with a guffaw.

"Miz Daisy told the wife you were expecting a house guest, but where'd all these others come from?

"Long story," Slim sighed.

"That was a rhetorical question, by the way," Bartlett said. "Right. Let's get down to business." This wasn't the first time he'd encountered turmoil in the Sherman establishment. It was a running joke that the place was a dependable source of entertainment in the otherwise mundane lives of their friends and neighbors. Showdowns, shootouts and all manner of lesser disturbances occurred with distressing regularity on average of once of month.

Slim and Gar Bartlett invited those with prior experience to join in deciding the most expedient method of denuding the fallen forest giant of its branches. While the men were naturally inclined to friendly competition, both leaders stressed that safety was the paramount consideration. Yes, of course everyone wanted to get the job done as speedily as possible… _but_, Slim reiterated, it would behoove each man to be mindful of how easily injuries could result from carelessness with an axe or a saw—not only to himself but someone working close by.

Half the combined forces were set to detaching limbs from the trunk itself. As each broke free and crashed down, a ground team moved in to chop off side branches. Larger ones were sawed into manageable lengths, to be tonged and skidded to a dumping area off to the side of the roadway. Leafy branchlets were dragged out of the way and heaved up onto the bank.

The two leaders strove to minimize repetitive motion fatigue by insisting the crews rotate activities every hour or so. Frequent short rest periods for men and horses ensured none became overly strained.

Slim and Bartlett called a meal break. Standing back, they marveled at how smoothly their men had integrated—hired hands from one ranch and a motley assemblage of guests from the other… pretty much how cow camps operated at roundup time—except without the usual petty jealousies and displays of bravado cowboys were prone to exhibit.

There was, however, much good-natured joshing concerning the superiority of the Bartlett ranch's mammoth draft animals over Sherman's puny mules and coach wheelers. With seemingly little effort, a single Percheron could skid a monster log that a team of average horses would struggle to move. On Slim's side of the obstacle, said logs were accumulating as the uncooperative coach horses had never before done this sort of work and were confused as to what was being asked of them. The lackadaisical mules couldn't care less—pulling was pulling.

By early afternoon only the trunk itself remained, straddling the road. To those not versed in dendrology, it seemed rather formidable. Slim explained that it wasn't even near the largest of its kind.

"I figure this one to be about forty-eight inches in diameter. I've heard that in old growth forest they can grow as big as six feet or more across, although I've never personally seen one that big."

"I have… down in Yosemite," Heath drawled. "This here one's just a middle-aged rascal. That's why he still had branches down to the base."

"Back to work, boys," Bartlett chortled. "Hardest part's yet to come."

Indeed, sectioning the trunk with two-man crosscut saws was a long, drawn-out, frustrating process—and the most dangerous part of the enterprise. When at last the sections lay on the ground, it took the combined efforts of the Percherons, the coach horses _and_ the mules to skid them out of the way far enough to allow passage of stagecoaches and farm wagons.

"That's all we can do for now," Slim announced. "By next year these logs'll be seasoned enough we can split 'em for firewood… but for today, let's load up the equipment and head for home!"

"I'll drink to that," Bartlett concurred. "Marilyn's promised an extra special supper for us tonight." A great hurrah went up from the Triple B hands… their bunkhouse cook was pretty dern good but nothing compared to what the boss lady turned out for special occasions. The Sherman contingent cheered as well, having been informed by Slim that _their_ 'boss lady' was also planning an extraordinary spread for them.

##################

_**A situation report and a proposal…**_

During lunch break, Slim and Bartlett had withdrawn from the others to converse privately.

"Father Flynn made it as far as our place yesterday afternoon on that big old mule of his." Bartlett paused to comb curlicues of wood from his luxuriant mustache. "He was planning on going on to your spread but we warned him about the tree and all. Told him y'all were making out just fine and talked him into staying the night. He'll probably be stopping by after checking on some of the other neighbors."

Slim was trying to ignore the itching of chips and bark that had managed to work their way past his shirt collar and into his underwear. Though impatient for his neighbor to get to the point—a report on travel conditions—he elected to let the older man get there in his own rambling way.

"According to the padre, the streets in town are clear and the road coming upslope ain't too bad. Much deeper up here. Reckons by tomorrow we could make it in a sleigh with a good strong team if we needed something real bad… which we don't. Wouldn't do us no good nohow… stores are all sold out and no goods coming in."

"What about the stagecoach and railroad… any news on when they'll be back in operation?"

Bartlett shook his head. "Nothing moving yet. Tracks still blocked between here and Cheyenne while they dig out from drifts. Telegraph lines twixt us and Rock Springs still down but word come from Cheyenne that Overland's not sending out any coaches until roads are passable."

"I was hoping for better news, Gar."

"It is what it is, neighbor. We've weathered worse storms than this. Say… about your houseful of squatters…"

"Guests," Slim corrected. "It's a tight squeeze but they've all been on their best behavior and Daisy's coped admirably. Believe me, they'd leave if they could."

"Let me run something by you… you know we got a bigger house than yours, and a bigger barn. Plus a big ole bunkhouse with some empty beds. We'd be pleased to take in a couple of your boarders 'til they can move on."

"I couldn't impose on you and Marilyn like that," Slim retorted. "We've managed so far."

"Ain't no trouble. In fact, it was her idea. Mainly on account of she worries about Miz Daisy overtiring herself."

"It's been worrying me, too. Okay then, I'll bring it up this evening and see if anyone wants to take you up on the offer. Thanks, Gar… that's more than generous."

"You're very welcome. So is anyone who wants to come over. No need to let us know beforehand."

##################

_**Going home…**_

Just as both companies were preparing to depart, Bartlett and two of his men delivered boxes of borrowed supplies as requested by Daisy.

"Be careful with those," Bartlett cautioned. "Eggs in one of 'em and hooch in another... among other things."

"We'll replace these soon as we can get to town," Slim grinned, shaking hands with his friend.

"Ain't no hurry," Bartlett responded, turning away toward his own sledge where the rest of his contingent waited. The huge black geldings were snorting with impatience, harness brasses jingling and their dinnerplate-sized hooves punching holes in the snowpack as if it wasn't even there.

Slim was last man up on his own vehicle. Another foot of snow having melted away during the day and the animals eager to get home, they made much better time on the return trip, pulling up in the yard just as the setting sun was poised at the horizon. Slim and Jess agreed unloading of equipment could wait until the next day. Having just finished with evening chores, Scott and John stepped forward to take charge of the mules and coach horses.

"You all go on in the house," Scott said, eyeing the eight tired, filthy and starving but nonetheless grinning lumberjacks. "We've got this." When Slim and Jess protested, citing their responsibility as ranch owners, Scott would have none of it. "We've had it easy all day. Besides, Mrs. Cooper has plans for you gentlemen. After washing up and supper, that is."

"What about _your_ supper?" Jess inquired. "You ain't eatin' with us while we tell about our day?"

"Brother Scott and me'll eat later… while the rest of you are gettin' your _baths_," John smirked.

"Baths?" Jess squawked. "I'm too tired for that. Why, I might just fall asleep and drown in the tub!"

Scott shrugged. "Take it up with her… not us. We've already had ours."

Daisy had decreed that mandatory baths were in order before anyone would be allowed to rejoin civilization. Furthermore—in the absence of the logging team—this endeavor would commence directly after lunch, beginning with the youngest. Mike balked at first until understanding that Johnny Mac, next in line, was prepared to yield to the inevitable along with Barney and Randy. The three teenagers were still young enough to cave in to a forceful mother figure's insistence. Scott, John and Tom were amused by the edict until _they_ had realized Daisy meant business.

##################

_**The next to last supper…**_

In anticipation of a successful mission, Daisy had outdone herself in the kitchen. The parlor table was groaning with roast pork, fried chicken, creamed potatoes, succulent brown gravy, three kinds of vegetables, yeast rolls and butter, apple and cherry pies and a magnificent chocolate cake. The men salivated as—in a rush to get at the feast—they jostled one another toward the washroom. Afterwards, having stuffed themselves to the gills, they meekly submitted to her 'suggestion' that it was bath time. The previously bathed males gathered to have their meal in relative peace—discounting the rowdy noises rolling down the hall.

That evening, after what little food remained uneaten had been put away and the kitchen tidied up, Slim relayed the news update on travel conditions. When he presented the Bartletts' invitation, they were too tired to give it much consideration.

By ten o'clock Slim and Daisy were the only two awake, lingering over one last cup of coffee before bedtime.

"So the road will be open to traffic in a day or so?" she inquired. "That's very good news… for us _and_ for our guests… not that I've minded," she amended hastily. "It's just that I'm sure they all have lives they need to get back to. Thanks to what Marilyn sent, we can probably stretch to another week… after that…"

Slim covered her hand with his, "One way or another, I think I can safely say they'll all be gone by then. The snowpack on the road was down to a little more than a foot this afternoon. Jess thinks some of the men will want to leave tomorrow. At Bartlett's they'll be that much closer to town and might be tempted to go ahead and ride in… but…"

"But what?"

Slim chuckled. "I expect Garland'll point out that, if the trains still aren't running, they'll find themselves in the same fix they were in before—no place to sleep and few places to eat."


	24. Chapter 24

_Chapter 24:_** THE END OF THE ADVENTURE**

**"**_**Hospitality is making your guests feel at home…  
**__**even if you wish they were."**_** • **_Author unknown_

_**FRIDAY, APRIL 17th… fourteen days post-emergency…**_

After breakfast, everyone except those patients still under care turned out to help unload the sledge and return equipment to the barn. While some attended to the usual morning chores, others pitched in to remove runners and restore wheels to the flatbed hay wagon. The convivial priest on his giant speckled mule showed up in time to partake of the noon meal, then departed to visit his outflung parishioners. While the Shermans weren't among them, the good father was a friend of the 'family' and never passed up an opportunity to enjoy Daisy's cooking. Slim once again brought up Bartlett's offer.

It was decided that Emmett, Scott, John and Heath would be the first to go—Emmett and John on their personal mounts, Scott on his rented livery horse, and Heath on Ranger, which Slim or Jess could later collect after he was traded for one borrowed from the Triple B. While acknowledging that Johnny Reb needed to be examined by a real doctor, Daisy put her foot down—a few more days in the makeshift splint wouldn't hurt. Though the young Texan argued that lots of one-armed men managed to saddle and ride horses on their own, she wasn't having it—he'd have to wait until he could be _driven_ and that was that. As usual, Daisy got her way.

Dispersal of everyone else wasn't so straightforward due to Daisy's insistence that Randy and Barney needed a few more days to get over the crud. Josh couldn't leave without the one and Duke wouldn't leave without the other. After much debate, the bounty hunter allowed as how it would be simpler to catch the first stage heading toward Cheyenne, leaving their horses at the ranch. After Randy had given his deposition and Josh had been paid, they'd return on the westbound coach, pick up their animals and go their separate ways.

The mystery of Barney's appearance had been cleared up: coincidentally, he'd been on the same eastbound train as Duke—each unaware of the other's presence as the older scout had ridden in a passenger coach while the younger one and his horse were at opposite ends of the same stock car as John and his horse, though they hadn't spoken. As soon as Daisy signed off on Barney, he and Duke would ride into town to catch the eastbound train and resume their journey.

The original _official_ house guest—Tom—elected to stay until such time as Slim could drive him and his goods into town and assist him in obtaining a semi-permanent residence… or, better yet, premises that included both living and office accommodations.

As Johnny Mac's presence at the ranch was not yet public, it was agreed that he would stay on until Emmett could arrange a better situation for him in town with the Murphys. The lawman reckoned he wouldn't have too much difficulty breaking the youngster's binding contract with that jackass Prentiss—if not legally and aboveboard, then with personal intimidation, at which he was very creative. (The sheriff need know nothing about _that!_)

##################

_**SATURDAY, APRIL 18th… fifteen days post-emergency**_

With the snowpack having been reduced to muddy slush, the rutted roadbed was barely navigable. Slim and Jess rode out to retrieve the spring wagon, leading Willie and Jake in harness. In retrospect, they could have done with the additional pulling power of the mules. Heath and Josh volunteered for morning chores while, indoors, Tom and Johnny Mac helped Daisy restore a semblance of order. With four less voices contributing to conversation, Daisy felt unaccountably bereft. True… it had been a lot of work, feeding and looking after the host. But in a way it had also been entertaining… a break in routine… and proof that desperate circumstances were capable of bringing out the best in folks.

##################

_**SUNDAY, APRIL 19th… sixteen days post-emergency…**_

Emmett returned with a news: the westbound train had departed and the eastbound tracks cleared for resumption of service on Monday morning. Telegraphic service had also been restored in both directions. Overland advised over the wire that they were back in business as well—the morning stage from Rock Springs would be coming through Laramie more or less on schedule, depending on road conditions. However, the Sherman relay station should be prepared to ready six horses instead of the usual four, in case the driver determined the extra pair was needed for the haul to Cheyenne.

In Emmett's estimation, a buckboard could now make it to town if not too heavily loaded. As Duke was adamant about getting on that morning train with Barney, Daisy allowed he was well enough to go. However, she stood firm on the injured Texas rebel. To placate her, Slim arranged that he and Jess would drive the buckboard to town with the two Johnnies—Mac and Reb in back... one to be delivered to Doctor Whatleigh's clinic and the other to his new home with the Murphys. Emmett and Barney would ride their own horses, with Duke on Johnny Reb's sorrel.

Soon enough the entourage was assembled and on their way. Tom, Daisy and Mike waved from the front porch

##################

_**MONDAY, APRIL 20th… the end of the adventure…**_

All that remained of the Great Blizzard of '74 were isolated patches of crusty, dirty gray snow lingering in permanently shaded nooks and crannies. Though beginning to dry out, the roadway was riddled with gunky mudholes in low-lying areas. The morning stage pulled in only an hour later than usual, with substitute driver Luke Perry at the ribbons. The regular driver, Mose Shell, had been stranded in Cheyenne all this time but they'd be seeing him on the afternoon run. And, yes… the extra team would definitely be needed today and maybe into next week. Not happy news for Slim and Jess—pulling double shifts would take its toll on the coach horses no matter how many extra rations they were fed or liniment rubdowns they received.

With only two passengers on the morning stage, there was plenty of room for two more. Josh and Randy climbed aboard and were gone. The house seemed unnaturally empty now that every one of the wayfarers had decamped except for Tom who, as a future resident, didn't really qualify as itinerant. The quietude prevailing at the dinner table had Mike puzzled, what with the four grownups looking like they weren't sure what to do with themselves the rest of the afternoon.

"I guess y'all are sure glad to have your home back to yourselves," Tom finally ventured.

"Well, I ain't," Mike said, looking around with curiosity when no one bothered to correct him. Thus emboldened, he forged ahead. "I liked havin' all them people here… an' learnin all kinda new stuff."

"I shudder to contemplate what 'new stuff' might entail," Daisy murmured with a sideglance at Slim, who merely shrugged.

"We can't shelter the boy forever, Daisy," Slim said. "I made that mistake with Andy, thinking ignorance of the outside world would keep him safe. Now I believe it's important for a child to grow up with an awareness of other lifestyles besides ranching or shopkeeping or…" He was going to blurt out 'gunfighting' but checked himself as his eyes met Jess's. Each knew what the other was thinking.

After a bumpy and contentious period of transition, Jess had steadfastly applied himself to settling down and endeavoring to dispel his previous reputation. Townfolk no longer went out of their way to avoid even his shadow when he walked the streets of Laramie. He'd made many friends and become generally well-liked and respected… even trusted by those whose opinions mattered—the sheriff, for instance.

Slim liked to believe that his confidence and support had played a major part in the reinvention of Jess the man… but, to give credit where due, the adulation of two impressionable children—first Andy and then Mike—had contributed immensely. Jonesy had taken awhile to warm up, though eventually he too had come to appreciate Jess' hidden qualities. Having arrived with no preconceived notions, Daisy hadn't from day one swerved in her devotion. No words were needed to confirm the bonds that now held Jess to the ranch. All it took was a family to claim as his own.

"Dya think we'll ever see 'em again, Jess?" the child queried. "I'd sure like to. We're all friends now, right?"

"You never know, Tiger," Jess grinned. "Anything's possible."

"When I grow up, I wanna be a wagon train scout… just like Mister Duke an' Barney," Mike asserted, "or drive a stagecoach."

Slim chuckled. "Just last week you wanted to be a lawman like Sheriff Mort and Deputy Emmett."

"That was _last_ week," Mike scoffed. "Or maybe I'll go to California and see the ocean and those really big trees, like Mister Heath. Do you think sometime we could go see the ocean, Slim… all of us together?"

"Someday, Mike, when you're a little bigger."

_Unspoken thoughts again passed between the partners… about the future. They'd likely never be able to make that trip 'together'—as they'd never be able to leave the ranch unattended for that long at the same time. Also likely was that by the time the youngster was 'bigger', Daisy would no longer be with them. There probably wouldn't be any wagon trains or stagecoaches, either. With coast-to-coast railroads having opened up the rest of the West, both were already fast becoming outmoded means of travel. The Indian nations were well on their way to becoming a pitiable, powerless minority as white civilization flourished and military enforcement regularized. Perhaps there soon would even come a time when men no longer found sidearms necessary._

But all that was in the _future_ future. The _immediate_ future meant getting teams ready for the afternoon stage.


	25. Chapter 25

_Chapter 25:_** EPILOGUE**

"_**All's well that ends well."**_** • **_William Shakespeare_

_**One week later…**_

Slim and Jess were celebrating resumption of their evening ritual—winding down on the front porch, their coffees liberally laced with _Oh Be Joyful!_ against the evening chill. One of the major advantages of having Daisy as housekeeper over Jonesy, the partners agreed, was that while the latter had held that alcohol consumption should be restricted to _restorative_ medicine, the former appreciated its _preventive_ properties. If her menfolk insisted on sitting out in the cold, then _she_ insisted they do so properly bundled up and warmed from both outside _and_ inside.

Enough lamplight filtered through the curtains of the parlor window that the partners could see each other in silhouette but not their faces. Mike and Tom had long been abed and Daisy was about to retire after one last check on her boys. She poked her head out the door.

"Can I get you anything… more coffee… a snack?"

"No thanks, Daisy. We're good."

"Don't stay out too long…"

"We won't… go on to bed."

"Well… alright then. Good night…"

"Good night, Daisy. Sleep well."

The door snicked shut and the partners went back to rocking in synchronization. Slim gave it a few minutes to be sure she wouldn't be returning with an afterthought, then extracted from an inside pocket two slender cylindrical tubes wrapped in tissue paper. He handed one over to Jess. Aside from the occasional special-occasion cigar, neither man regularly smoked. Slim never had and Jess'd given up cigarettes by his second year on the ranch. Although Daisy'd never said anything about it, they knew she didn't approve.

"_La Rosa de Paris_… compliments of Doc Adam. Ran into him at the pharmacy that morning I went to pick up Tom. The missus finally foaled—a colt and a filly." Doctor Adam Niederhauser, the town's sole veterinarian and a good friend, was now a proud new father.

They stripped off the wrappings and lit up, picking up the conversation Daisy had interrupted. The glowing tips of their cigars illuminated gestures.

##################

_**More good news…**_

"Almost forgot… Emmett had some other news to share with me and Tom while you were… um… out back. You sure were gone a long time."

"Don't remind me," Jess groaned. "Musta been somethin' I et. Think I'm about over it, though. So what's the news?"

"He went to see Counselor McNutt about that Johnny Mac business and they got to talking about this, that and the other. Turns out Lychee wants to talk to Tom about throwing in with him for a while until he gets his practice established. Not only that, there's a vacant apartment upstairs that's already furnished—Tom could move right in."

"What'd Tom have to say about it?"

"He's all for it."

"Lychee ain't worried about competition?"

"Not at all… says he'd be pleased with some open-minded company for a change and Tom's presence would encourage more white clients instead of just other Chinese folks."

"An' Johnny Mac? How's that gonna work out?"

"Better than expected… Emmett and Lychee interrupted Judge Garth's Sunday dinner and got a temporary order revoking Prentiss' contract for those other bound boys on the charge of child abuse. Father Flynn took them into the Catholic orphanage… they don't have age limits. Johnny Mac seems to be happy with the Murphys. Tom's first job's going to be _pro bono_ legal advocate for those older orphans."

They rocked and puffed in silence for a bit before moving to the next subject.

"Hope Randy makes out okay in Cheyenne," Jess commented. "Seems like a real nice kid."

"Daisy sure took a shine to him," Slim chortled. "When he comes back to get his horse, I could be tempted to offer him a job."

"You know, for a bounty hunter that Josh ain't half bad. He don't talk much an' he's real laid back. Ain't fulla meanness like mosta those fellas get… know what I mean?"

"I do. I wonder what ever made him take that up as a profession? Everybody hates bounty hunters even though they're a necessary evil."

"I could tell he had somethin' on his mind so I went ahead an' showed him my papers."

"How'd he take it?"

"Okay, I guess. He just grinned an' said better luck next time."

"Not that there's gonna be a next time, right?"

"Not if I can help it."

##################

_**Even better news…**_

"Wonder if that friend a Duke an' Barney's really does look like me close enough to be a cousin?"

"Well… like you told Mike, anything's possible. After all, look what happened with BobCat and PlumBob. You still have all those documents, don't you?"

"Yeah… locked up at the bank with… other stuff."

"D'you recall if the names 'Cooper' or 'Smith' were listed?"

"Not offhand. No."

"Did you think to ask Duke to ask this other scout about this Coop's relatives?"

"Yeah. Said he will if the dude shows up in Denver. Says it looks like this'll be their outfit's last run. The wagonmaster an' cook're gettin' long in the tooth, plannin' on settlin' down, buyin' a spread in northern California."

"I hear it's a nice place to retire but I'm kinda partial to Wyoming."

"Reckon I am, too."

_You don't know how glad I am to hear that, Jess…_

"I'm kinda glad Scott was able to talk John inta goin' his people got the patience to wait for him to see the light."

_It sure took YOU long enough, pal! I can understand their frustration. _ "I didn't realize you two were such _good_ friends."

"We wasn't… but I felt sorry for 'im back then. His life was even rougher'n mine an' that's sayin' somethin'. I wouldn't a gave a plugged nickel for either of us makin' it to twenty-one… but here we are—better off'n we got a right to be."

"I don't know why you should think that, Jess. Far as I'm concerned, you've earned that right to a better life. Wouldn't know anything about his situation, though. After all, he's had to overcome prejudice along with poverty."

"Maybe I helped some, talkin' to 'im 'bout how my life got turned around, once I put my mind to it… an' had the right man backin' me up. I'd like to think it helped, anyway."

Slim contemplated what might be going on in Jess's head. The man so seldom exhibited anything that could even remotely be construed as a philosophical streak. It always surprised Slim when his partner deviated from the plane of here-and-now tangibles… like 'what's for supper?' Jess wasn't prone to dwelling on the futures of individuals who were merely passing through his admittedly limited frame of reference. Slim waited to see where this line of consideration was going to lead them.

##################

_**Front porch philosophy…**_

"Slim? D'you believe in fate… or destiny… or whatever they call it?"

"Not really. Why?"

"Just cogitatin' on why them particular men was the ones what turned up here. Why not some _other_ people?"

"Chance," Slim snorted. "Or maybe just pure coincidence."

Jess hesitated… and Slim stopped rocking.

"In church they preach ain't no such thing as coincidence… that everythin' happens for a reason."

"Do you believe that?"

"I… I don't think so… I ain't sure. If that's so an' there ain't nothin' you can do to change it, wouldn't more people just give up an' not try to improve theirselves or help others?"

Slim grunted. "It would seem that way, wouldn't it? I can't speak for whatever measures you might have been taking to improve your own lot before you got here. All I could see at first was a man driven by resentment and fueled by vengeance. Since then, I've gained a friend who puts the welfare of others ahead of his own.

"If anything, I'd like to believe it was divine providence brought you to our table. Andy needed friendship and you gave him that. I needed an open mind and you helped me become a more understanding brother. Maybe that same belief was responsible for fetching those storm refugees to our doorstep. They needed help and we gave it to 'em. Everyone went away better off than when he arrived, and we're better people for having helped 'em. Could've been _any_ individuals. Think about that as you're drifting off to sleep… which is what we need to be doing fairly quickly. Tomorrow it's back to work as usual…"

"It'll be good to get back to normal," Jess agreed._ Or as normal as it ever gets around here, Hardrock!_

Slim sensed Jess's lop-sided grin even if he couldn't see it. Not for the first time it came to him that his partner owned a prodigious untapped intellect… and he wasn't even aware of it._ If only Jess'd been born to a more affluent and sophisticated strata of society, and afforded a classical education… no telling how far he might have risen among the ranks of up and coming contemporary philosophers… could've been another Kierkegaard or Dostoyevsky… but then we'd never've met and I'd be the poorer for that… selfish attitude, I know… but there you go…_

"Let's go in…"

################## **THE END** ##################

_**Thanks to the owners of the LaramieVerse as well as those of all the other vintage Western series...  
and to my long-suffering, endlessly patient betas—Westfalen and RK4SL**_

_**Author's note:**__ I've taken liberties with at least _one_ character whose frame of reference was actually in the 1890s. Get over it, already!_

_**The common cold:**__ After an incubation period of 24 to 72 hours, symptoms of a common cold begin with a scratchy or sore throat, progressing to sneezing, runny nose, nasal obstruction, cough, hoarseness, and mild general symptoms like headache, feverishness, chilliness, and not feeling well in general. On average, a cold lasts one week although a mild one may last only two or three days and a severe one up to two weeks. Just imagine how you would have fared with a winter cold 145 years ago with no cough drops, no Puffs tissues, no Nyquil, no Dayquil, no humidifier, no central heating, no electric blanket… and no Daisy soothing your fevered brow!_


End file.
